by JL Merrow
After he’d eaten, Patrick had just enough strength to drag himself upstairs to change into slobbing-out clothes, then he slumped back on the sofa in front of the telly and thought about never moving again, ever.
Just as he was starting to feel vaguely human again, the doorbell rang. Patrick’s heart leapt for a moment, before he realised there was no way short of divine healing it was likely to be Mark.
Mum gave Patrick a funny look when she came back from answering the door. “There’s a young lady to see you.”
Patrick gave her a funny look right back. “Who?”
“See for yourself, love.” Mum stood back and let Fen into the living room.
Patrick felt a bit caught off guard, sprawling there on the sofa in his saggy trackie bottoms and old T-shirt, with his feet up on the table and a hole in his sock. He sat up straight and put his feet on the carpet. “Fen?”
She sent a distrustful look Mum’s way. Mum just held her hands up in surrender, smirked at Patrick and left.
“It’s about Dad,” she started. Then stopped.
“Yeah?” Patrick encouraged her cautiously, not sure if she was going to tell him she missed him, or to piss off and never darken their door again.
It was like he’d thrown open the floodgates. “Look, just fix it, all right? He was happy with you, and now he’s not. He’s just spent the whole weekend moping about looking sad and it’s horrible. And he came back from your fun run all hurt, and you didn’t even bring him home. And I know he said you said horrible things about him, but he still likes you anyway, so just come and say sorry, and it can go back to how it was, all right? ’Cos I hate it the way it is now. So fix it.”
“Look, it’s not that simple, all right?” Patrick ran a hand over his hair. “You know what he does for a living? Used to do, I mean?”
“Um. He works out people’s taxes? So?”
“Well, for a start, he never told me that. He said he was an accountant.”
Fen nodded. “He is. He’s always going on at me about how he’d never have got such a good job without spending, like, years and years doing exams and getting fifty million letters after his name. Like not having a life is a good thing. He tried to teach me double-entry bookkeeping once so I could keep track of what I was spending. It was so boring. I mean, God, what’s the point of writing everything down twice?”
Huh. “Well, okay. But the tax thing, see, me and him have got a few differences about.”
“So?”
“Well, some of us think people should pay what they owe. Otherwise, there’d be no money for schools and hospitals and programmes for disabled people.”
Okay, that one hit home. Her forehead creased in a frown. “So Dad told them to pay less than they owe?”
“Well, sort of. He found all these loopholes in the laws that meant they wouldn’t have to pay so much.”
Her jaw set. “They should make better laws, then.”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“So you dumped him for just doing his job? Which he’s not even doing anymore? That’s so unfair.”
“I didn’t dump him, all right!”
“No, you just were all mean to him and then never said sorry. That’s like constructive dismissal.”
“How do you even know what that is?”
“David said. And we learned about it in school, anyway. In PSE—you know, those lessons where they teach you about sex and life skills and stuff? It was in the bit about discrimination. Which is totally what they’re doing to Lex, so you’d better make them stop it, all right?”
“Me? What am I supposed to do? I don’t make the decisions about who gets hired.”
“No, but you could tell them if Lex goes, you’ll leave too. Lex told me they saw the accounts, and you’ve made loads more money for SHARE than the last person who had your job. And you’ve been there years. They won’t want you to leave and have to get someone new in and train them up and stuff.”
Could it be that simple? Patrick was so used to the trustees laying down the law from above, he hadn’t stopped to think he might have a bit of power over them too. Could he risk it, though? Mum’d have a real struggle paying the mortgage on her own.
Fen was looking at him sharply. “Or is it only Dad who’s supposed to give up his career for what you think is right?”
Ouch.
“So what did Mark’s little girl want with you?” Mum asked after Fen had stomped off, her chin high. “She’s all right, that one. Ever so polite when I opened the door, all sorry to bother you, Mrs. Owen and that.”
Patrick looked away. “Told me off for being mean to her dad.”
“That’s sweet. You can tell they’re close, her coming rushing round to defend him. Like I always say, it’s bollocks that single parents can’t bring kids up right.”
“Yeah, but…” Patrick ran a hand through his hair. It just flopped lankly afterwards, as if standing up in its usual style was just too much effort right now. Christ, he needed a shower. “I know what I said… I shouldn’t have spoken to him like that. And maybe he didn’t actually lie to me about what he did for a living. But…”
“But what, love?”
He sighed. “Well, what do you think about the fact he used to help people cheat the taxman? And yeah, I know it was all legal.”
Mum perched on the arm of the sofa and levelled her gaze at him. “You know that comedian you don’t like? He was on the news earlier. Paid back half a million quid in tax, and he said he was sorry.”
“So?”
“So people change. And, more to the point, he didn’t have to do that, this comedian. Wasn’t like he’d broken the law or anything. You know what your problem is, my lad? You’re so bloody far up on the moral high ground, you can’t see what it’s like for us ordinary people down here.”
“What, you’re on Mark’s side now?”
“What do you mean, now? When did I ever say I was against him?”
“Mum, you didn’t have to say it.”
“Well, maybe I’ve noticed you looking a lot happier since you’ve been with him. And well, what’s fourteen years, when all’s said and done? Age is just a number.”
“Mum, I can’t believe you’re—you know what? Never mind. Just tell me this: do you think it’s right he lost the country millions of pounds of tax on a regular basis?”
“Is that what he said?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“He was probably exaggerating. And if he hadn’t done it, someone else would have. He’s not doing it now, is he?”
“No, just living off his bonuses from grateful corporate fat cats.”
“Would you rather he gave it all back and had to live off benefits?”
“Mum, that’s not the point.”
“Look, love, I know you feel you’ve got to make up for your dad, but what he did, it’s not on you. Not your responsibility. And, well, your Mark’s all right, when you get to know him. Stepped right up to the plate at the SAPS meeting Thursday night, took on the job of treasurer, which poor old Bridget’s been trying to get rid of for years ’cept she couldn’t find anyone who’d admit to knowing what two plus two was.”
Patrick narrowed his eyes. “You never said he was at the SAPS meeting.”
“Don’t have to tell you everything, do I? Course, if I’d known you were planning to have a strop and dump him on Friday—”
“I haven’t dumped him, all right? I just—we just had words. That’s all.”
“Oh yeah? Had any since?”
“Well, no…I was busy with the fun run, wasn’t I? I couldn’t just leave.”
“You could’ve dropped in on your way home. Checked the poor bloke’s ankle really is just twisted, not broken.”
“It’s not broken, all right?” Patrick’s conscience kicked him in the gut even as he said it. “Look, j
ust give me a bit of time, yeah? I got stuff to think about.”
Maybe he’d go round tomorrow, after work.
And hope Mark wasn’t still too pissed off with him to listen.
Chapter Thirty
Mark’s ankle was still somewhat painful Monday morning, although it wasn’t as swollen as he’d feared. It was the least of his woes, in any case. He still hadn’t spoken to Patrick—it’d seemed too soon to call, what with Patrick presumably exhausted from the day’s event. But he hadn’t been able to keep himself from hoping Patrick might call him. Just to see how he was.
He was now trying to ignore that little shoot of hope lest it die from overwatering. But then, things had seemed a lot friendlier between them after he’d turned his ankle yesterday. Well, briefly, at any rate. Until Patrick had left him to his mum’s tender mercies, and not looked back.
No, not too much danger of nurturing that budding hope to death.
Fen had actually suggested of her own accord that she should take the bus to school so he wouldn’t have to drive, which had been considerate of her, but meant he was left on his own even earlier than usual to contemplate the mess his love life had become.
Mark made himself a mug of coffee and managed to hobble into the living room without spilling more than a third. It was a lot harder than you might think to carry hot drinks while limping.
He’d just made it to the sofa and set his coffee on the table beside him when the doorbell rang, which was just as well. If he’d still been en route, the entire mugful would have ended up on the floor, the way his heart clenched and he jumped convulsively. Could it be Patrick? He swallowed, heaved himself up and limped to the door.
It was David, wearing a looser pair of jeans today, in ordinary blue, and a shirt that seemed to lack his usual flamboyance. This time, he’d brought what Mark could only assume was an ironic bunch of grapes. “I’ve come to cheer the invalid, languishing upon his sickbed,” David said, handing over the fruit. “Although you seem to be rather more upright than I was led to believe.”
Mark took the grapes mechanically, with misgivings, and tried not to look too unhappy to see his guest. God, what if Patrick came round now? “David… I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
“No. It’s fine. It’s all fine.” David thrust his hands into his pockets as he stood there. “I’m over you. Really. Well, not really, but I’m getting there. And I thought, you know what? It’s just silly to avoid each other. To go out of our way so we won’t bump into one another accidentally.”
Mark’s conscience pinched him, hard, at the reminder that he wasn’t the only one with an unhappy love life. “David, you had to travel across London and then twenty-five miles out to get here. That’s the very definition of going out of your way. Come in, anyway,” he added, because, by his own argument, it’d be hardly fair to expect David to turn around and go straight back again.
“Oh, twenty-five miles here, twenty-five miles there.” David slunk down the hallway with his usual catlike grace and flopped onto an armchair at Mark’s gesture. “If we were in America, it’d be nothing.”
“But you can’t keep using up your days off visiting me.” Mark eased himself back down onto the sofa, where the sight of his coffee cup on the table reminded him he was being a bad host. Damn it. Now he’d have to get up again. “Ah. Would you like a coffee?”
“No, don’t get up. I’ll make myself one in a minute.” David sighed theatrically. “Work’s horrible. Charles is horrible. I’m thinking of giving it all up and becoming a market gardener.”
Mark coughed to hide a smile. “David, have you ever gardened in your life?”
“I grew some cress on blotting paper once. How hard can it be? You just plough the fields and scatter, and then sit back and wait for nature to do all the work for you. First the farmer sows the seed, then he sits and takes his ease. We sang that in primary school. And I’d be a natural at the market part. Can’t you just see me behind a stall, charming all the housewives and househusbands into sampling my wares?”
“I think you might want to look into it a little more deeply before you hand in your notice. Why not try another job in a similar field to what you do now first, and see if it’s any better with a different boss? Maybe one who’s a little more up-to-date in his attitudes?” Mark finally managed to take a sip of his coffee. It’d gone cold.
“God, I know. Charles is, like, a quarterback or something.”
Mark blinked. “A throwback?” he guessed.
“That’s the one. I mean. I don’t remember anyone ever being that bad, even when I was a little gay-boy growing up. I heard him tell Ms. Ignield in Partnerships he didn’t agree with women wearing trousers in the office—can you imagine?”
Mark didn’t have to imagine. He could remember Ellen’s first job interviews, and how much she’d agonised over whether a trouser suit would be acceptable, before playing it safe and putting on a skirt. “It’s like you grew up in a different century to me.”
David cocked his head. “Actually, if you define growing up as the period of your teens, I did grow up in a different century to you.” He beamed.
Mark winced and took another sip of cold coffee without thinking. Ugh. He put his cup back on the table and nudged it farther from his reach. “Thanks for the reminder. But it’s more than that. Look, how old were you when you first told someone you were gay?”
“I never tell people I’m gay. Not in so many words. They always seem to know. Ooh, ever since I was in short skirts, I suppose.”
Mark stared for a moment, then forged bravely on. “And you’ve never felt the need to hide who you really are? Never felt the need to try to change?”
“Never felt the ability, so what would have been the point?” David cocked his head to one side. “So let me guess—you think my life’s been all beds and roses because I’m so clearly gay?”
“No. No, I don’t.” Mark sighed. “All I’m trying to say is…we’ve had very different lives.” He was silent for a moment, then thought, to hell with it. “What do you think about what we do?”
“Well, it depends what you’re talking about. Gay sex in general, anal in particular—”
“Not that! I meant, for a living. Working for a firm that specialises in finding ways for clients to pay less tax.”
“It pays the bills?”
“Yes, but—should it? It’s not exactly socially responsible, is it? Don’t you ever feel like you’re cheating the country out of much-needed funds? After all, with the National Health Service in the state it is…”
“Well, if we didn’t do it, someone else would. And anyway, that sort of thing was all more your area, remember? I just did the paperwork.” David leaned close to give Mark a suspicious look. “What is all this? I thought you’d had the midlife crisis already, sweetie.”
“Just something someone was saying. It made me think. Some people seem to give so much towards the common good. Other people just take.” Mark looked away. “It’s been rather brought home to me that I’ve always been one of the takers.”
“Just because you’ve always been a taker doesn’t mean you can’t be a giver if you want to be,” David said sagely. Mark had a suspicion he was talking about gay sex again, but nevertheless it sparked an idea within him. Maybe some grand gesture, such as running the London Marathon for charity, would win Patrick back? He was saved from having to comment when his phone rang.
Mark wrestled it out of his pocket, frowning to see it was the school calling. God, what had Fen done now? “Hello?”
“Mr. Nugent? This is St. Jude’s,” a sharp female voice informed him. “Just to remind you, all absences due to sickness need to be notified by a parent or guardian before ten o’clock the first morning of absence.”
Why was she telling him this? “Er, yes, I’m quite aware of that.”
She hmphed audibly on the other end. “So when can
we expect Florence back at school?”
“Wait, what? What do you mean, back at school? Where is she now?”
“That, Mr. Nugent, is something we’d rather hoped you would know. She certainly isn’t in school.”
“What? But she should have been there”—Mark glanced at his watch—“nearly two hours ago. She was catching the bus.”
“So you’re confirming this is a case of truancy, Mr. Nugent?”
“I, ah, wait… I’ve got to go,” Mark gabbled and put the phone down quickly. Oh God. His insides were tied up in so many knots any Boy Scout worth his salt would have had to go for a lie down on witnessing them. He felt faint, and queasy with guilt and worry.
This was all his fault. God, how could he have been so selfish? He’d had one aim with Fen, and that was to give her a stable environment. And what had he done? Dashed her hopes of a new family not once, but twice. Was it any wonder she’d—God, what had she done? Where was she?
“David, you drive, don’t you?”
“Naturellement.”
“Good. You’re driving me along Fen’s route to school. In case she missed the bus and is trying to walk it—although why the hell wouldn’t she just call me?” Mark stopped dead as he realised what an idiot he was being, and he grabbed his phone again to dial Fen’s number.
It clicked straight on to voice mail. Damn it.
“No answer, came the stern reply?”
“No. Or yes. Whatever. Come on, we need to find her.” Mark’s heart was thumping painfully now. Surely nothing bad could have happened to her?
Nothing bad ever happened in a place like Shamwell, did it?
Chapter Thirty-One
“Thank God you’re here,” Mark said as David drove them along the road, scanning for any sight of Fen. How hard could it be to spot one not-overly-petite teenager in a bright fuchsia uniform? “Don’t know how I’d have managed, with this ankle.”
“Oh, you’d have been fine without me. You’d have called someone. Your Someone Else, perhaps.”