Hugh sat on the bed and watched Charlie as his fingers sped over the keys, the absorption in his face, and the concentration.
‘See, even when something gets corrupted there’s like a record left behind,’ Charlie muttered. ‘It’s gonna be here, I’ll find it okay. Just takes longer when you dunno the path names.’
‘Which is Mum’s computer?’ Hugh asked, recognising neither.
‘Wasn’t safe to use. I took out the hard disk, cleaned it up and installed it in this old machine of Joel’s.’ He indicated the computer on the right. ‘And then I’m running everything through this one as well’ – he pointed to the other machine – ‘to make sure I’m backing it up okay.’
Hugh had only a vague idea of what he was talking about, but nodded anyway, glad to see Charlie in his element. Obtaining the list of friends and their addresses wasn’t that vital, they could probably get by without it, but he wasn’t going to interfere with anything that kept Charlie fully occupied.
Charlie drummed his fingers rapidly on the table top and glared at the screen, as though willing it to give up its secrets. ‘Can we get fixed up with broadband, Dad? It’s just I don’t wanna have to go to Joel’s the whole time when I need to download stuff. And it wouldn’t mean getting tied in for ever. There’s like two, three providers you can sign up to by the month.’
Did this mean he was aiming to stay out of college till Christmas? Hugh wondered in passing. ‘Sure. Go ahead and fix it up.’
Charlie attacked the keys again, his mouth clamped tight shut, his eyes staring with concentration, and Hugh hoped he wasn’t getting too hyper. In his early teens he’d developed bursts of almost manic energy. It was one reason he’d taken to cannabis, he’d told them on one of the few occasions he’d talked rationally about his addictions: to calm his head down.
When he paused again, Hugh said, ‘After supper, how about we all sit down and choose some hymns for the service, eh? And any poems or readings you like?’
Charlie dragged his attention away from the screen and fixed his gaze on the table top. ‘Can’t tonight.’ His eyes flicked up and veered down again. ‘Elk and I are going to a meeting.’
‘Oh. An NA meeting?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Sort of . . . ?’ Hugh added a smile to soften the question.
‘It’s like a Buddhist group.’
Hugh maintained his smile. ‘For recovering addicts or . . . ?’
‘It’s just a regular meeting, I think.’
The silence threatened to stretch out. ‘Well, so long as it does the trick,’ Hugh said. ‘So long as you feel it helps. I mean, if you want to go to a Buddhist meeting or any other sort of meeting, then, hey . . . that’s fine with me. Whatever. And don’t think I’m worried or anything like that. About the drugs, I mean. Because . . . well, I’m really not. And you know I’m here for you, if you ever . . .’ He had drunk the wine too fast, it had gone straight to his head, he felt a little dizzy. ‘. . . if you ever want to talk.’
Charlie gave him an uncertain glance. ‘Sure, Dad.’
Another silence then Hugh stood up and gripped Charlie’s shoulder. ‘Take care, eh?’
Hugh was halfway down the stairs when the music boomed out again, so loud that he almost missed the buzz of the doorbell. ‘Cut it down, will you, Charlie?’ he yelled.
Lou came out of the kitchen and looked at him questioningly.
‘Are we expecting anyone?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘It’s probably Elk,’ he said in a stage whisper. ‘Let’s just hope he’s not expecting supper.’
But it wasn’t Elk. In the pouring rain and darkness beyond the porch light, as though uncertain of having found the right address, was a cyclist with a helmet shading his face, waterproofs, and a reflective yellow jacket. The cyclist pulled his bike back onto its stand. Only as he advanced into the light, the rain trickling down his face in glittery runnels, did Hugh recognise Tom Deacon.
Tom stepped into the hall and pulled his helmet off. ‘Couldn’t get here sooner,’ he gasped breathlessly. ‘Had the boys for the weekend.’
‘Tom, I . . .’ Hugh was still struggling to overcome his surprise. ‘Listen, it’s good of you to come at all. I . . .’
Tom was staring at him with such a fiercely pained expression that the rain on his cheeks might have been tears. ‘Christ! Of all things. Of all the sodding things . . . Wish I could save you this, Hugh. Wish I could save you the grief.’
‘Thanks. I . . .’
‘If there’s a god in heaven, you bloody wonder where the hell he’s gone, don’t you?’
‘Yeah . . .’
‘You got my message okay?’
Hugh racked his brains. ‘Um . . . When did you . . . ?’
‘It was tied to the gate. With the flowers.’ There was an awkward silence punctuated by Tom’s gasps. ‘To the gate,’ he repeated.
‘In that case we’ll have got it. And the flowers too.’ Saying this, Hugh wondered if he’d got it right about Tom bringing flowers. It didn’t seem likely somehow.
Tom said tautly, ‘You didn’t see it? The message?’
‘I’m sure we did . . .’
‘I left it on Friday. I came over specially. It was with the flowers, tied to the gate. I didn’t know where you were. I thought the gate was the best place. I wrapped it in plastic in case it rained.’
‘We must have got it then. We took everything off the gate. We collected all the messages.’
Tom was in a strange panic. ‘You didn’t see it?’
‘I probably did, Tom. But to be honest the whole of Friday’s a bit of a blank.’
Tom glared at him uncomprehendingly before clamping his eyes shut in a gesture of light dawning. ‘ ’Course it was bloody blank. ’Course. Memory’s the first thing to go. Christ, I should bloody remember that, shouldn’t I?’
‘What did it say, the message?’
‘That I’d be here for you,’ Tom declared, as if this should have been obvious. Shrugging his rucksack to the floor, he peeled off his dripping top by grabbing the back and pulling it over his head.
‘You’ve cycled all this way,’ Hugh said.
‘I would have cycled all night if I had to. You know that.’
Hugh took the waterproof from him. ‘But in this rain . . .’
Tom balanced on one leg then the other to peel off his waterproof trousers. ‘I wasn’t going to let you down, was I? No way.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Nothing to say.’
Hugh took Tom’s gear and hung it on a coat hook. Returning, he summoned a tone of welcome. ‘What can I get you, Tom? Coffee? Beer?’
He trailed off as Tom came towards him, raising both arms. For a crazy instant Hugh thought he was going to close his eyes and say a prayer, then he thought he was going to make a speech. Only as Tom got closer did Hugh realise it was to be an embrace. It was a stiff, self-conscious affair, Tom keeping most of his body well clear, only their shoulders touching, and Hugh guessed such gestures didn’t come naturally to him.
Stepping back, Tom said formally, ‘Please accept my deepest sympathy.’
‘Thank you.’ Seeing Lou at the kitchen door, Hugh said, ‘You remember my daughter, Lou?’
Tom nodded and said a brief, ‘Hi.’
‘Can I get you anything?’ Lou asked.
Tom addressed his answer to Hugh. ‘Wouldn’t say no to a glass of red.’
Collecting wine and glasses, Hugh led the way into the living room. ‘How were the boys?’ he asked.
‘Good,’ Tom grunted.
‘You took them walking?’ Hugh asked as he worked out how to ignite the mock-coal gas fire.
‘The sports field. Nowhere else to go.’ The lack of a car, the reliance on public transport for activities with the boys was a recurrent complaint with Tom.
‘So . . .’ Hugh said when they were sitting down. ‘Isabel tells me it went well on Thursday, that you did a great job in the witn
ess box.’
‘Haven’t come to talk about that,’ Tom said firmly, from behind a cloud of cigarette smoke. ‘I’ve come to listen. To talk. To be here for you.’ By way of emphasis, he sat forward, resisting the comfort of the armchair, his gaze fixed on Hugh.
‘Well . . . that’s very good of you, Tom. I appreciate you coming, I really do. But, well . . . we’re coping reasonably well at the moment. You know . . . so far as we can.’
‘But you need to talk, Hugh. You have to talk. It’s the best therapy. Believe me – I’ve tried them all.’
‘Of course you have! Yes . . . I’m sure you’re right. But I’m lucky, you know – I have Lou and Charlie, and they have me. We’ve done quite a bit of talking, one way and another, and I’m sure we’ll do a lot more in the days and weeks to come. And sometimes . . . well, you run out of talk.’
‘It’s never good to stop talking, Hugh. It means you’re avoiding the painful stuff.’
‘Very probably.’
Tom said in an intense way, ‘You’re feeling guilty.’
Hugh took a slow sip of his drink while he rehearsed a response.
‘You feel you should have saved her.’
‘Well, yes. That goes without saying. I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t think that.’
‘It’s called survivor guilt.’
‘I know what it’s called,’ Hugh said, not caring to go in that direction.
Tom drew on his cigarette, exhaling smoke as he said, ‘You feel you should have been there to get her out. You feel you should never have left her alone.’
‘Sure,’ Hugh said.
‘You’re trying to punish yourself for the fact that it happened, that’s all. It’s a form of denial.’
‘I’ll take your word for it, Tom.’
‘But you’ll get through it. That’s what you’ve got to keep sight of. You’ll get to accept it wasn’t your fault. You’ll get to accept there was nothing you could’ve done. It’s one hell of a journey, to get that straight in your head. It takes one hell of a lot of therapy. But you will get there, Hugh. You will get through the guilt.’
The insistent tone, the relentless stream of advice, were getting on Hugh’s nerves. Hearing the clatter of plates through the open door, he longed for Lou to come to the rescue and announce supper.
‘But you can’t do it alone,’ Tom said, flicking his ash into the flames. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
‘A therapist, you mean? Maybe,’ Hugh said, knowing he’d only try it as a last resort.
‘Everyone needs help, no matter how strong they think they are.’
‘I get all the help I need from the kids.’
‘You can’t offload guilt onto other people, Hugh.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting you could. What I meant was, they get me through the day. They give me a reason – the reason – to keep going.’ The argument, even the phrase, were oddly familiar, and Hugh realised with a sense of unreality that he was echoing Tom’s words.
Tom said, ‘So, who gets to hear about your guilt?’
Feeling oppressed, Hugh took refuge in a flippant tone. ‘Well, I certainly do.’
‘You’ve got to understand the process, Hugh.’
And why do I think you’re about to explain it to me? Hugh thought, bracing himself with another gulp of wine.
Tom put his wine down. ‘Okay . . .’ He began to count off the points on his fingers. ‘First comes the numbness, the shock, and the denial. The refusal to believe it’s true. Yeah?’ He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head a little, the instructor waiting for a glimmer of understanding from his student, and it struck Hugh that he was relishing his rare moment of authority.
‘Yeah,’ Hugh murmured.
‘You might not realise it, but you’re still in the denial stage. Okay? You’re still trying to believe it’s not true.’
Next, thought Hugh with growing tension, you’ll be telling me it gets worse.
‘Second’ – Tom bent another finger – ‘comes the anger.’ He regarded Hugh impassively. ‘And I think you’re already into the anger, right?’
Hugh made a non-committal gesture.
‘Well, it’s okay to be angry. Angry with yourself for not being there. Angry that you didn’t realise she needed help even though you were miles away at the time. Angry with the whole bloody world for letting it happen. Yeah?’
Tom was sounding like a walking textbook. But then after five years’ therapy he probably was.
‘Am I angry?’ Hugh posed rhetorically as the wine took charge. ‘Well, why not? Might as well go the full gamut.’
‘And when you’ve stopped being angry with yourself, you’ll start looking for someone else to get angry with. Someone else to blame.’
Already there, thought Hugh. Just five days and I’m onto stage three. Or were they still on stage two? He’d lost track.
‘You know how it was with me,’ said Tom. ‘It wasn’t just that stupid old man’ – he never mentioned the other driver by name – ‘it was his fucking doctor for letting him stay on the road when he was a heart attack waiting to happen, it was the car makers for their crap safety features.’
‘You had good reason to be angry,’ said Hugh.
Tom stated with unwavering certainty, ‘You’ll find targets for your anger too.’
‘Not sure who or what I’d be angry with. Apart from myself. And that’s keeping me pretty busy.’
‘You’ll look for conspiracy theories.’
Not trusting himself to answer that, Hugh gave a snorty little laugh.
Tom’s eyes darkened. ‘I don’t mean like international plots,’ he said touchily. ‘I mean like whatever might’ve started the fire. The last electrician in the house. The last plumber. Whatever.’
‘Hadn’t thought of that. Why not?’ Hugh reached for the bottle to top up their glasses.
‘Do they know what caused the fire?’
‘An accident, they think. But the jury’s still out.’
‘They’re not sure?’
‘Who knows?’ said Hugh, setting the bottle back on the table and taking a gulp of his wine. ‘They don’t say much.’
‘How’re you dealing with that?’
Hugh thought, Christ, he’s been among the shrinks so long he’s come to rate his talent as a therapist. ‘Doesn’t bother me.’
‘ ’Course it bothers you. It bothers you to hell.’
Close to outright rebellion, Hugh waved this aside with a swing of his glass.
Tom insisted, ‘It bothers you to hell because you want someone to blame. But that’s okay. It’s part of the process.’
‘Nothing’s going to bring my wife back,’ Hugh said, taking refuge in platitude. ‘So the cause of the fire doesn’t make any difference.’
Ignoring this entirely, Tom said, ‘You might never know what caused it. That could be the toughest thing of all, tougher than having someone to blame.’
‘Wouldn’t be surprised!’ Hugh declared with a sudden smile. ‘So . . .’ He made a thrusting movement of one hand as if to move them rapidly forward. ‘What comes after guilt and anger, Tom? What’s the next stage?’
Tom’s frown made his bony face seem more emaciated than ever, the eyes burning fiercely above the skeletal cheeks. ‘I know this is hard for you, Hugh.’
‘Yeah, well, now you come to mention it I don’t know if I don’t prefer denial and make-believe and muddling through with the help of some red wine.’ He raised his glass in tribute. ‘You do at least have the benefit of feeling numb.’
Tom nodded understandingly, as if this were another predictable phase in the official process of grieving. He stubbed out his cigarette on the hearth and reached for the packet to pull out another. ‘Self-medication isn’t always the best way.’
Hugh’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Sorry?’
‘Alcohol.’
‘Isn’t that just a touch of the pot and the kettle?’ Hugh added a smile to lighten the criticism.
‘If I had my time again I would
n’t have used drink.’
‘You use it now, Tom!’
‘That’s what I mean. It got a grip on me.’
‘Well, hey – each to his own. I’m sure as hell using it tonight and I have to say it feels wonderful.’ Hugh was well on the way to getting drunk and hadn’t the slightest intention of slowing down. ‘So, you haven’t told me what next. The guilt and anger gets to go, does it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘When does that happen?’
‘When you get to accept deep down that there was nothing you could have done.’
‘Aha! Deep down? Not sure where that’s located just at the moment.’ Hugh took another swig of wine. ‘And then?’
Tom’s gaze took on a distant look, as if his thoughts had turned inwards. ‘You keep looking for the person you’ve lost. You keep searching for them.’
‘And after that? Just wondering if it gets better.’
‘Then you begin to get over it. You begin to accept it.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ Hugh said airily. ‘Very glad. Is that what the textbooks say?’
Tom nodded.
‘Must be true then.’
Tom’s expression became opaque, his jaw muscles clenched rapidly, the sinews quivering visibly beneath the tight flesh.
Playing his words back in his head, hearing the flippancy in his voice, Hugh said in a spirit of remorse, ‘Glad for the information, Tom. Don’t get me wrong.’
‘It helps to know.’
‘Sure. And your case taught me about post-traumatic stress.’
‘You’ve got grief reaction.’
‘Yes . . .’ Wishing more than ever that he could escape, Hugh said lightly, ‘Good old Ainsley. He spelt it out to the court, didn’t he? The difference between grief reaction and PTSD. I should have remembered. A good find, Ainsley. Came up trumps. Wowed the judge. Wouldn’t be surprised if his evidence does the trick, eh, Tom? Wins you the jackpot.’
Tom held his gaze unblinkingly.
Hugh signalled another retreat with a twist of one hand. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Grief reaction. . . . no flashbacks, eh?’
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