by Simon Lelic
“Tell me something, Mum,” I said.
She’d been tidying her tears and she paused, as though she could sense what was coming. We’d never before spoken about our past. Not directly. Up until that day there’d never seemed much point.
“Would you do things differently?” I asked her. “If you had the chance again. Would you . . .” I searched for the words that would help me clarify, to explain more specifically what I meant, but I ended up simply repeating the same question. “Would you do things differently?”
Whatever answer I was expecting, I wasn’t prepared for the response my mother gave me. Her neck and head sank physically toward the floor, so that in that instant she appeared six inches shorter. The tears she’d dammed welled up again and her hands came together in silent prayer. She shuffled awkwardly, as though her instinct at first was to move toward me but part of her wanted simply to run away.
“Oh, Sydney,” she said. “Darling, I . . .” She shook her head and it took a moment for me to realize that the gesture was also her answer.
I frowned again—alarmed, angry, I don’t know. “Mum?”
She was trying to speak—trying to explain—but she was struggling to find her voice. “I just . . . I don’t think I could,” she said at last. “Even now, if you gave me the chance . . . I’m not sure I’m strong enough. I’ve just never, ever been strong enough.”
Her hand reached out and then fell away again. She was watching me, waiting for me to judge her, the tears dry now but the fear visible on her face. The self-loathing too.
“I’m sorry, Sydney. Really I am. For what happened to you. For everything.”
It was the first time she’d said it, even in all her letters. And quite honestly I wasn’t sure how to react. The survivor in me wanted to sneer at her, the little girl longed to be held. I was both, neither, one and then abruptly the other—an adult on a seesaw with a child. No doubt I looked as lost to my mother as she did to me.
—
IT HAPPENED AS she was leaving. I’d given in and offered my mother the tour and we were making our way back along the landing when I sensed her come abruptly to a halt.
“Sydney?”
I turned around. She was staring at the pictures on the wall.
“Where did you get this?”
It had been a long time since I’d heard my mother speak to me that way, in a tone that implied an accusation. She looked shaken. Angry too, as though she suspected she was the victim of some trick.
I peered to try to work out what she was looking at. The pictures on the landing were spaced so densely, her finger could have been directed toward one of several.
“I told you, Mum. All the pictures came with the house. We’ve been meaning to take them down but so far we haven’t got round to it.”
“But this picture . . . this one right here . . .”
I drew closer and realized the one she was staring at was a portrait of a child. It was faded, though printed in color, and it showed a brown-haired little girl with a lollipop stick poking through her grin. I’d noticed it before but only in passing. To be honest I’d always found it slightly creepy, though I’d never quite been able to pinpoint why.
“What about it?” I asked.
“You don’t see it?” My mother was frowning now, first at me and then again at the picture. She seemed to want to edge closer for a better look but at the same time appeared wary of moving too near.
“See what?”
She didn’t answer.
“Mum? See what?”
She drew away. “I . . . nothing,” she said. She shook her head. “I just . . . I made a mistake. That’s all.”
I looked again at the picture as my mother moved past me and started awkwardly down the staircase toward the hall.
“Mum, wait.” I hurried to catch up. “Let me help you.”
But even with her hip the way it was she was moving quickly and soon enough she’d negotiated the stairs all by herself. I tried asking her again what the matter was but she just mumbled something about having to hurry to catch her train. For a moment it looked like she might cry again and I was so thrown by her behavior that when she kissed me I didn’t even flinch. From the way my mother was acting, I don’t think she noticed doing it herself.
I climbed back up to the landing after she was gone. There was something about that picture that had upset her, some likeness she’d detected in the image she’d been surprised I hadn’t recognized myself. But I couldn’t see it. As far as I was concerned that picture had nothing to do with us; it was a memory from someone else’s past. And so I left it there. I had no reason not to. Until the day I ripped her sobbing from that cage of hers, I barely gave that little girl another glance.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
JACK
“JACK? CAN I borrow you for a moment?”
It was Mr. Yazdani, my boss. He was a long, spindly man, so devoid of both hair and body fat that you could see the exact shape of his skull through his head. I liked him a lot, in spite of his Death-like appearance, but there was something uncharacteristically formal about his tone. Behind him there were at least three other department heads I recognized, as well as Margery from HR.
“Jack? Now, if you don’t mind.”
I looked over at Bart. “Right,” I said. “Sure. Just let me—”
“Don’t touch your computer. Bring a pen if you like, just in case you want to take notes, but the rest, just . . . just leave it alone,” Mr. Yazdani finished, and I couldn’t tell whether the distaste he was exhibiting was because of some new initiative our department was being lumbered with or whether it was aimed more specifically at me. Bart, when I looked this time, avoided my eye. Practically everyone else in the office was staring directly at me, however, including those three department heads. Whatever was coming, I knew it wouldn’t be good.
—
BART CAUGHT UP with me afterward. I was crossing the lobby of our building when he called out to me from the doorway to the stairwell.
“Jack! Hey, Jack, wait up.”
I heard his voice as though through a bubble. I was moving on autopilot, and it took Bart’s calling out again to bring me to a halt.
“Jack! Hold on, will you? What happened in there? What did they say to you?”
I turned to look at him. His face seemed different somehow. Everything did. “They found out,” I said.
“Found out? Found out about what?”
“About Sabeen. About Ali. About all of them.”
Except for the security guard there was no one around us, but Bart checked across his shoulder and pulled me into one of the lobby’s dimly lit alcoves. I didn’t resist.
“What do you mean?” Bart had lowered his voice to something like a whisper. “How could they possibly have found out?”
I shook my head. All I could think about was Sabeen’s mother and father, the disappointment I imagined etched on their faces.
“What did they say, though?” Bart pressed. “Why are you leaving? Did they . . . I mean, are you . . . ?”
“I’ve been suspended,” I told him. I’d said it almost as a question, but voicing it made it seem real. I’d been suspended. I would probably—definitely—be fired. And that made me think about my own parents. What would my mother say? My father, I knew, wouldn’t say anything. He wouldn’t have to.
“Fuck,” I announced suddenly. “Just . . . fucking . . . fuck.”
Bart smiled at that—I suppose at the spectacle of me swearing. He was trying to be encouraging—I recognized as much even then—but nevertheless it was the wrong thing to do.
“It’s not funny, Bart.”
“I’m not laughing, Jack. I’m just—”
“You are laughing. You’re smiling even now.”
His face went deadpan. “I’m sorry, mate. I honestly wasn’t laughing at you. I�
�m just trying to get my head around it, that’s all.”
Now I laughed. Bart was trying to get his head around it.
“How did they know?” he repeated. “Did they tell you how they found out?”
I gave another raw little snort. “They mentioned a concerned neighbor. They said they couldn’t go into specifics. And it’s bullshit anyway, because the whole point is they didn’t have any neighbors. That’s why I put them there.”
“So . . . what? You think Mr. Yazdani and the others were making that up? That they found out some other way?”
In truth, until that point I hadn’t been particularly concerned with how they’d found out. I’d been thinking more about Sabeen and her family, about what would happen to them now. And, yes, about what would happen to me. It hadn’t even crossed my mind that I might be subject to criminal proceedings. Losing my job—getting fired—that was bad enough for me.
Bart was waiting for me to answer. I was about to shake my head again, to insist I had no idea, when it struck me that the answer was staring me in the face. Literally.
“Why don’t you tell me?” I said.
I knew for a fact I’d covered my tracks when I’d set up Sabeen and her family in their new home, so there was no way I could have been caught through something I’d left showing on the system. I briefly considered Ali’s phantom immigration official, but if the Home Office really had been involved in the discovery, Mr. Yazdani and his cronies would have told me. They had no reason to hide behind a lie. There was always the possibility some neighbor had stuck their oar in, precisely as Mr. Yazdani had claimed, but it was like I said: Sabeen and her family didn’t have many neighbors, and none that would have had any cause to complain. And besides, Sabeen and the others—they were careful. To the extent that half the family rarely ventured out. If somebody from their community had reported them to the authorities, it would have taken someone peculiarly vindictive. And, personally, I’d always held the belief that people in general do their best to get along. It’s only when they feel threatened that they lash out, and no one from Sabeen’s family had the temperament, or any reason, to threaten anyone.
No, the way I saw it, the explanation was right in front of me. Bart was the only other person in the world who knew about Sabeen. I hadn’t even confided in Syd. And here he was now, quizzing me on what I knew about how the department heads had found out. I mean, for Christ’s sake, he was more interested in that than the fact I’d just been suspended.
He was looking at me, pretending he hadn’t heard right. “What did you say?”
I faced him fully. “I said, why don’t you tell me?”
That smile again, more pointed this time. “You think I told them?”
“You’re the only one who knew. You’re the only one I trusted.”
“Seriously, Jack. I know you’re pissed off right now, but think for a moment about what you’re saying. What possible reason could I have for going behind your back?”
“I can think of dozens of reasons, as it happens.” There’d been talk recently of a spot opening up at the pay grade above ours, and it was possible Bart was positioning himself for the promotion. But that was tenuous, to say the least, and I had enough sense to recognize that for Bart any such maneuvering would have been completely out of character. In fact, if I’m honest, there was really only one possible explanation that had come to mind. “Maybe you were just pissed off at me,” I said. “Jealous, even.”
“Jealous? What on earth would I be jealous of?”
“The house, for example. Syd.”
“Syd? What the fuck, Jack!”
Bart’s outrage, in my mind, seemed only to validate my accusation. His relationship with Syd was something that had been needling me virtually since the day I introduced them. I’d never quite shaken the feeling that they were sharing a joke at my expense behind my back. It was little things: glances they shared, expressions that passed between them. I’d always tried to dismiss the way I’d felt as paranoia, but it’s like I said before, right? Just because you’re paranoid . . . And, quite honestly, it felt good to finally voice the suspicions I’d been nurturing. To be on the attack, too, when so far I’d been wholly on the defensive.
“I’d expect you to deny it,” I said. “But I’ve seen the way you look at her. I’ve seen the way you sidle up to her when you think no one else is watching.”
Bart was doing a good impression of being too flabbergasted to speak. “Sidle up to her,” he managed to echo. He glanced around as though in search of some assistance. The security guard had taken an interest in us, but otherwise the lobby remained empty. I suppose that’s one thing I can be grateful for now: that as I stood there making a tit of myself, there was nobody else around to watch.
“I came down here to see if I could help,” Bart said. “You know, to lend a bit of moral support. I didn’t expect to be fucking accused. Of losing you your job. Of trying to steal your girlfriend. I mean, Jesus, Jack!”
I think I must have realized then that Bart’s outrage was genuine. That yet again I was in the wrong. And I must have known, too, that if I was going to rescue our friendship, I would have to start trying right then. I couldn’t unaccuse my friend. But Bart knew what I was going through. He knew me well enough not to take what I’d said to him too seriously. Sure, even if I were to apologize, he’d be pissed off at me for a while, and would probably still feel genuinely hurt, but we’d fallen out before and got past it. I had no reason to suspect that this time would prove any different—if only I could set aside for a moment what was left of my misplaced pride.
The security guard had moved out from behind his desk. At most I had another ten seconds, after which I’d be escorted from the building and Bart would disappear back upstairs. Time enough to say sorry, though. More than enough time to make my choice.
“Thanks,” I said to Bart. “But if this is what your moral support looks like, frankly you can stick it up your arse.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SYDNEY
I GOT THE drugs from a guy I know at work. I suspect Jack will worry about my talking about this because he wouldn’t want me to get myself in trouble. Plus, I suppose, there’s the idea that my taking drugs makes me unreliable. Except, the way I look at it, what type of person would come across worse: someone who took drugs and owned up to it or someone who pretended they hadn’t and was later found out? And they will find out, I know they will. Jack’s friend Karen? She’s probably found out already. As for my getting in trouble, I’m fairly sure that horse has bolted too. Besides, a caution for possession—if that’s as much as all of this amounts to in the end, I’ll be laughing all the way to rehab.
So, yeah, I scored, when for four whole years the thought of doing so hadn’t even crossed my mind. OK, OK, so it had crossed my mind but only the way a memory might. Or, actually, a worry.
Again—as with my mother’s visit—it was after what happened to Elsie. In fact I’d just come from the hospital, where for several hours I’d watched Elsie lying immobile on her bed in exactly the same position as when I’d visited the day before. I was at my desk, pretending I was thinking about something else, when I noticed Howard (not his real name; any resemblance to persons either living or dead, etc.) loitering on his own near the coffee machine. And I just got up. And I walked over to him. And I said, “Hi, Howard, how’s it going?” and before I knew it I was sixty quid poorer.
In my defense I didn’t use right away. Not for almost a fortnight. It was only on the day Jack was hauled into his boss’s office that I finally succumbed. Again, not because of Jack’s job. The timing was purely coincidental. Or not, really, but you know what I mean. And you see, that’s why it is important I admit to this. That I lay my coke-encrusted credit card on the table. Because it was partly due to the drugs that I reacted the way I did when Jack got home. And it’s definitely because I reacted the way I did that Jack, afterward,
went straight to the Evening Star. So that’s on me too, is what I’m saying. I fucked up. Again. And Jack’s day, which hadn’t begun well, was about to get a whole lot shittier.
—
I GOT AN e-mail. That’s what started it. As Jack was at his desk, unaware that his boss’s hand was priming itself to settle on his shoulder, I was sitting on the lid of our toilet staring at the screen of my iPhone. The shower was running and the bathroom mirror was already dripping with mist but I still hadn’t even shed my pajamas. I think I had my toothbrush in my mouth too. I did, because I remember the toothpastey drool that hit the screen of my phone after it fell from between my parted lips.
I hadn’t recognized the sender. I only opened the e-mail at all because Jack’s name had been the subject line. And the attachment had displayed automatically. There was no message, no writing of any kind. Just the picture that had sent me blindly groping for the toilet seat.
The photograph was one of Jack. Smiling. Leering—in a way I’d never seen him doing before. And beside him, with a look in her adoring eyes that conveyed way more than any line of text could have, was a girl planting her lips on his cheek. A woman, I suppose you could have called her. Barely. She looked foreign. Like, Mediterranean. Middle Eastern, maybe. As well as kissing him she was clutching Jack’s arm. Clasping it. And the two of them were heading through a doorway I didn’t recognize. Into an apartment, it looked like. A bedsit? Which got me thinking that maybe it was one of Jack’s. One of the ones he’d allocated—just as the girl was probably one of Jack’s as well. Someone he’d saved. Someone who felt they owed him. Someone, basically, as grateful and as gullible as me.
For some time I sat there, too stunned to think.
Jack. My Jack. Doing . . . this.
I stared for another moment at the photograph and then I hurled the phone—Jack’s leer—against the towel rail. It hit a towel (surprise, surprise) and didn’t break, not even when it landed on the hardwood floor. I kicked it as it rebounded toward me and it skid-spun under the washing basket and cowered against the skirting. Fucking prick. Fucking cradle-snatching, two-faced, two-timing prick. I spat my toothbrush into the sink and wrenched off the shower, not caring about the water that soaked my sleeve. I stood there for a while adding to the steam, glaring at the shower curtain as though it were him. My mind started racing through all the things I felt a sudden urge to do, all of which culminated in a vision of something breaking. The mirror behind me, my toes against the side panel of the bath, Jack’s jaw. If my phone had been in my hand I would have called him, would have started by perforating his eardrums. I needed to do something that would feel that gratifying, something as pure a release as a scream.