‘What?’
‘Are. You. Fucking. Her?’
‘Who?!’
‘Naomi.’
‘Am I sleeping with your ex-wife?’
‘Are you?’
‘No!’
‘You are.’
‘Jesus, you really have lost the plot. What on earth makes you think that?’
‘Your dressing gown.’
Lancaster is actually smiling at him. Joseph’s fingertips feel bony rolled into fists.
‘My dressing gown?’
‘Yes.’
The smile broadens into an oh-I-get-it. ‘Good spot. That is mine. But no, I haven’t touched her. Honestly. No offence, but she’s not even my type. She did ask for my help, though, and I did stop over, but only to keep an eye out for you, you daft bastard. Guilty as charged. She’s been pretty worried, you know.’
‘You’re lying.’ The words sound hollow.
‘I’m not,’ says Lancaster simply. ‘I’m telling the truth and you know it. One day you’ll look back on all this and laugh. Camping out in the woods. It will all seem funny. Christ, Joe, think of what we’ve got through before now. This is a joke compared.’
‘No, I mean it. You’re lying.’
‘About what?’
‘Everything.’
‘Everything?’
‘Nothing makes sense.’
‘Yes it does. To me, anyway. I do actually get why you did it.’
‘Why, then?’
‘You were pissed off!’
‘That’s it?’
‘You’re a fighting man, Joe. Look at this: you are! You wanted to stick it to the bank on your way out. The fuckers chose Rafiq over you after all these years. You didn’t think robbing them would work, not really; you just wanted to make a point. Things aren’t going so well at home, but you get this new lease of life from the hospital and you think, you know what, if they’re all showing me the door I’ll show them how little I care.’
‘No. I wanted to make amends.’
‘Maybe. Either way I have to say I reckon you knew full well that I was still there, that I’d help cover it up.’
‘You’re going to take me in, hand me over, and they’ll prosecute. You’re sending me to prison.’
‘For what?! Giving your own money away? Yeah, somebody should lock you up for that. But the rest is just a failed attempt. The bank isn’t interested: do you think they want the press knowing one of their relatively senior guys tried to rob them? Of course not! That would be well embarrassing! No, they just want what they wanted before: you gone, without a fuss. And without your parting bonus, now: they’re pretty happy about it!’
Relatively senior.
‘Why did they have you hunt me down, then?’
‘What? They didn’t. Naomi called me, after she’d heard from your brother. She thought I might know where you were, or be able to help work it out, at least.’
‘But the guy in London.’
‘What guy?’
‘You had Lara’s phone tapped. He intercepted me after that.’
Lancaster does an I-know-nothing shrug, plus a smile laced with concern. ‘Come on,’ he says, ‘let me pour you another cup of tea.’
‘I don’t want more tea.’
‘Just rest a while, then. You look like you’re about to fall over again. Perhaps you should put your head between your knees.’
107
Joseph allows Lancaster to guide him back to the little clearing with the camping stove, red pots, show-off-big thermos and whatnot, and he half accepts the lowered-head suggestion, opting to drop his face, eyes shut, into his dirty palms.
He imagines a vase. A very valuable vase, possibly Ming. He’s no expert on vases! This one is his vase, either which way. As well as being valuable money-wise, this vase is full of hope. Plus it’s beautiful. Or was. Now it is smashed. Smithereens. That’s the word! A thousand tiny hopeless pieces. Also worthless? You’d think so, but: not quite.
Because of what?
That piece there. The little bit with the Ming crest on it, if that’s what they had, Ming vases.
Said crest represents what?
Something Lancaster said.
About?
The press.
The system won, as it always does. Joseph can’t change that because he never could. See that wall? Knock it down – with your head! Not possible. That way lies a split skull for him alone. But he can still give the bank a headache if he goes to the papers. Confesses, et cetera. And not just about what he tried and failed to do as he left, but about what he did while he was there: the irregularities he helped the bank get away with deal-wise, the many governance-finessing regulatory piss-takes, the blind eyes turned, hell, the trading done on the back of confidential information, the bungs, the bribes, the … He has twenty years of proper insider knowledge about all this, and he can still make it count … for something.
Ha.
As in ah-ha.
But there’s more to all of this, of course there is.
‘What about Naomi?’ he says.
‘Naomi? She’s worried for you, like I said. What did you expect?’
‘Worried.’
‘Yeah, beside herself. Reckons it’s all because of Bosnia: the old PTSD.’
‘She always wanted me to see someone.’
‘Still does. You should.’
This makes Joseph laugh out loud.
Lancaster shrugs, marvelling at him. Eventually he says: ‘I did.’
Joseph studies Lancaster’s face. ‘Seriously?’
‘How could it hurt? Anything you say in the room stays in the room. The woman I saw was actually pretty good. I can give you her number. Look, at the very least, it will satisfy Naomi. Who’ll be bloody relieved to see you, I tell you, mate.’
Naomi. The dressing gown, razor, et cetera. Even if she had been seeing someone: so what? It not as if he doesn’t deserve it, and anyway, she’s her own man. Woman. Till death us do part didn’t quite work out but who knows, if he has the chance to explain all this to her, she of all people will understand. Her lovely arms. The way she walks. A cross between a strut and a waddle. Off to do something good. She’ll see the point. Because unless Lancaster is out and out lying she’s said she wants to see him again. That’s more than a goddamn silver lining.
‘She was kind of amazed at the whole Huntington’s disease thing. That you’d kept it from her. Amazed, and pissed off, but finally relieved. Jesus, that could have gone the wrong way!’
Joseph, saying nothing, checks to see if he can feel the stillness descending again. The whole not-a-leaf-flickering thing happens again. The only movement is Lancaster wiping out the inside of a pan with a bit of paper towel he brought. So prepared!
‘Ben,’ says Joseph, ‘please don’t mess with me about that.’
Lancaster looks up.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just don’t.’
‘You’re the one who got himself tested.’
‘I never saw the results.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. Well. It didn’t take much for me to find them out and I can tell you …’ the slit of his mouth softens with – what is that? – pity? ‘… I can tell you’re not going to believe me whatever I say.’
Joseph knits his fingers together to stop them shaking.
‘But look, mate, you can do the test again. You’ll see for yourself.’
This concerned we-go-way-back undertone is unbearable! Joseph gets up and turns around and walks off towards the den again. Without the camouflage: look at it. Now that is pitiful. In fact, Lancaster did do a bit of damage falling onto the roof. Damn him! This corner here is all broken in. Joseph can see the black strap of his rucksack on its side in the dirt. He reaches down, pulls the bag free, rummages through it to find – what? – the goddamn envelope, of course.
Are you an idiot? he asks himself.
Well, is he?
Quite possibl
y.
Only a fool would hand the unopened letter, treasured all this time, to Lancaster.
Joseph does that.
‘I couldn’t quite read it,’ he says.
‘My God, Joe.’
‘The kids. I just …’
‘You really haven’t, have you.’
‘So selfish of me.’
‘Mate.’
‘Could you open it?’
‘Of course, but I already know what it says!’
‘Please.’
108
Inevitably deft, Lancaster fillets the envelope, unfolds the single sheet of paper inside, looks it over cursorily and hands it up to Joseph.
There at the top: the St Thomas’ logo and address.
Plus: Hospital Ref No. blah blah postcode, date, Dear Mr Ashcroft …
‘Further to the recent blood-screening tests undertaken to identify whether or not you have inherited the genes responsible for Huntington’s chorea, I am pleased to inform you’ –
Pleased.
In the nanosecond before he reaches the next words: why not delighted?
– ‘that the result was negative.’
Joseph hears himself sigh, feels the descending coolness of a crisp new duvet unfurled over tired – so tired! – limbs.
The letter doesn’t end there, but – Joseph scans the rest, just in case – it could have.
‘Negative.’
What now? He’s sort of slumping sideways again.
Oh well.
Lara.
He smiles to himself.
Zac.
There’s a firmness to the duvet now. It’s Lancaster. He’s actually picking Joseph up, holding him, murmuring in his ear: ‘You’re okay, Joe, you’re okay.’
‘No, no, no.’
‘Well, no more fucked than the rest of us, at least.’
Is that laughter percussing through Lancaster’s deep chest?
‘I’ve got your back, old friend. I really have.’
Old friend.
‘What do you say we go and get you cleaned up?’
Joseph nods.
‘Sit here, put these on while I break camp.’
From within his bag Lancaster retrieves Joseph’s walking boots. The thought of Lara cleaning them for him raises a lump in his throat. As he pulls them on and does up the laces – so slowly – he watches Lancaster whizz this way and that, gathering up pans and stacking them inside one another and packing them into his duffel. He jumps down into the den as well: soon all Joseph’s things are up over the hole rim, salted away, ready to move out. Well, nearly all of them. The cot he built, the handhold root, the mostly unbroken masterpiece roof; all that has to stay behind. Lancaster is saying something about how the kids might enjoy his bolthole; he could even help them repair it, though possibly once it’s had a chance to air. And now the bags are bulging, full, ready to go. For a horrible moment Joseph fears that Lancaster is expecting him to carry his rucksack out of the woods – it looks heavyish again! – but of course he peremptorily shoulders both it and his own duffel and is even about to pick up the bin bag, half full of empty sausage plastics, bean tins, and popsicle wrappers, but since it’s right next to his newly booted feet Joseph beats him to that. It’s super light, this bin bag, but having bent quickly to pick it up, so is he: light-headed, at least. In that state he has a little wobble, as in he allows the actually-possibly-it’s-still-best-to-run-for-it fear to rise in him again.
But of course he doesn’t run.
He can’t.
It’s as much as he can do to imagine putting one foot in front of the other and following Lancaster from the woods.
He wavers there in the dappled morning light, dead on his feet, never more alive.
A wood pigeon coos. Another one answers. Or it could have been the same one cooing twice.
Doesn’t matter: he, Joseph, has plans. Mostly they involve asking for help, plus filling in the holes with hope.
She wants to see him.
Take the first step.
You can do it.
So do!
He does.
It’s just one step but it changes everything.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Jonny Geller, Catherine Cho, and all at Curtis Brown; Walter Donohue, Sam Matthews, Claire Gatzen, Eleanor Crow, and all at Faber & Faber; Christopher Booth; and of course my family.
About the Author
Christopher Wakling has worked as a lawyer and travel writer and teaches fiction at Curtis Brown Creative. Married with two children, he lives in Bristol.
Also by the Author
ON CAPE THREE POINTS
BENEATH THE DIAMOND SKY
THE UNDERTOW
TOWARDS THE SUN
THE DEVIL’S MASK
WHAT I DID
Copyright
First published in the UK in 2018
by Faber & Faber Ltd
Bloomsbury House
74–77 Great Russell Street
London WC1B 3DA
This ebook edition first published in 2018
All rights reserved
© Christopher Wakling, 2018
Cover design by kid-ethic
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The right of Christopher Wakling to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
ISBN 978–0–571–34880–0
Escape and Evasion Page 26