The Beach at Doonshean

by Penny Feeny

  She pursed her lips into a whistle, drummed her heels against the wall, wouldn’t make eye contact.

  ‘We’ll have to make an insurance claim. It ought to be straightforward but they may want to investigate the cause.’

  ‘You don’t need to say nothing,’ said Kelly. ‘Like you know who did it or whatever.’

  ‘I don’t know who did it,’ said Matt. ‘I’m guessing. But you don’t seem to realise how serious this is. Somebody could have been killed. And we still don’t know how much damage Leo has done to himself.’

  She sniffed and withdrew her arm, which was a relief. He didn’t feel comfortable with her clinging on to him like a cat. ‘Your brother needs help,’ he said. ‘He needs to see a psychiatrist. He should have a social worker, at least. You asked me the other day what I could do, didn’t you? Well I’m here now and I’d like to talk to your dad about this. Where can I find him?’

  Kelly shook her head violently. ‘No!’ she said. ‘You don’t want to do that.’

  ‘Your nan then. Some responsible adult. Otherwise things are going to get a lot worse.’

  She gave him a sly sidelong glance. Was she trying to be coquettish? ‘If you don’t tell on us,’ she said, wriggling again so her skirt rode further up her thighs, ‘I got some, like, information, you might wanna hear.’

  Matt had no intention of being bought off. ‘Been spying again, have you? Go on then, surprise me.’

  ‘Your dad.’

  He felt himself stiffening, hoped she hadn’t noticed. ‘Leo. Yes?’

  ‘It weren’t, like, Nath’s fault he got hurt. Me and my mate Sheba, we was talking. She goes to this happy-clappy church and she reckons it’s a punishment.’

  ‘Oh? What for?’

  ‘It in’t right what he did. It’s against the law or the Bible or something. ’Cos she’s your wife, in’t she?’

  Matt’s stomach clenched.

  ‘I seen them shagging,’ said Kelly.

  29

  The Interview

  The tide was low. The river was being sucked out to sea and the mud flats glistened, offering their booty of petrol cans, old tyres, shopping trolleys. Gulls were stalking the detritus, pecking at a misshapen piece of sacking, perching on a rusting bicycle wheel. Matt preferred the view when sailing boats skimmed the water, when it reflected the blue of the sky, when it rose and slapped against the high stone wall and the unsavoury secrets of the Mersey were hidden. He wasn’t sure how he had fetched up there, thumping along the Prom. He’d been on automatic pilot since speaking to Kelly.

  It was one thing to have his own doubts, to torment himself with the possibility of a sexual liaison between his wife and his stepfather, but it was quite another to have this suspicion confirmed. This must be how Julia had felt, when she was driven to instigate divorce. No, she’d had proof, actual proof. Kelly was a fantasist, almost as crazy as her brother. He needed to consider the evidence rationally.

  Some things were incontrovertible: Rachael’s recent behaviour had been erratic. Overemotional, secretive, hinting at guilt. Whenever he asked what the matter was, she blamed Leo; the way he’d turned up out of the blue with an apparent mission to unsettle; the way he refused to take other people’s feelings into account. But she’d spent a lot of time with him all the same, and since the fire she’d nursed him almost constantly. Driving him to the clinic, going out of her way to help him eat, drink, dress. Almost as if she felt beholden.

  There was no way, Matt reiterated, he would believe Kelly’s absurd lies. Like Leo, she was one of those people who relished stirring up trouble. What groping and grinding could she possibly have seen? None. Unless she’d sneaked into the garden. Then she would have had a clear view into the sitting room, the soft squashy sofa that was easily large enough to accommodate a randy couple. No, it was bollocks. Rachael would never betray him like that. He picked up a stone and bowled it forcefully over the railings, waited for it to sink into the mud. Then he turned homewards. He’d rather confront the truth – any truth – than these painful imaginings.

  When he arrived back at the house their car was no longer in the drive; he had an uninterrupted view of smoke-blackened ruins. Another vehicle, an unfamiliar Toyota, was parked outside. He wondered first, who would be visiting if Rachael were out and second, why she hadn’t told him her plans. He presumed Danny was with her. He checked his phone to see if he’d missed any calls or texts. No, nothing.

  Once inside the hall he closed the door quietly. Possibly the Toyota belonged to a nurse, although he’d understood Leo was supposed to get himself to the treatment centre. Then he heard laughter. This was unexpected. Matt poked his head around the sitting room door. Sections of the Saturday newspaper lay in disarray on the coffee table, but there was no one in sight. No one in the kitchen either. Voices came from the end of the hallway: a low murmur, some barked instructions, another laugh. Female? He tensed. These people, intruders, whoever they might be, were occupying his study.

  It used to be Julia’s. There had been tomes of medical reference books on the shelves, a cumbersome PC on the desk and piles of reports awaiting collation. Paperwork still proliferated. Matt’s slim-line laptop allowed ample space for folders, box files and bills that needed sorting. But now, when he marched into the room, he found the clutter had been moved and stacked in a corner on the floor and Leo was sitting on the top of the desk. His pose was casual but proprietorial, one leg bent, one foot spinning Matt’s swivel chair back and forth. His mood could not have been more different from earlier that morning. For the first time since the fire he looked cheerful.

  To his left was a young woman with a ponytail and a small black instrument Matt identified as a tape recorder. To his right was a man in a denim jacket with a large long-lens digital camera.

  Matt had planned to take a strong stance. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, when every room in the damned house held a memory of adolescence, of a time when Leo was the authority figure and Matt the put-upon, misunderstood teenager. But this scene, this invasion, made it easier.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he said.

  The woman turned in surprise, as though he were the interloper. The photographer said, ‘Chin up but don’t smile. Don’t want you looking too jolly. Can you raise your hands a couple of inches?’ Leo’s shrouded paws hovered above his lap. ‘That’s great. Yep. And again.’ The shutter clicked rapidly.

  Leo said, ‘My guests are from the Echo. It appears that I’m newsworthy.’

  Matt said, ‘Well they shouldn’t be in here, however newsworthy you are. This is my study.’

  ‘Ah… Your study?’

  Leo was trying to make him feel fifteen again, but he wasn’t going to be browbeaten. ‘I daresay it’s hard for you to accept this, but didn’t you move out five years ago? My mother’s gone now too. She left behind the desk you’re sitting on because it was too big for her to take. It’s mine now. Like this house. So you see, you’re the one who’s overstepped the bloody mark.’

  ‘Your study,’ said Leo smoothly. ‘My painting.’

  The solitary survivor; the only canvas left in the house. Conflagration 2 used to live in the sitting room. Matt had grown up with it hanging above the mantelpiece, the swirls of its composition echoing the flames in the grate. He could tell the execution was powerful; there was a sense of drama in the brush strokes. As for the colours, he had no idea whether they were accurate or glorious or especially remarkable. (It was an irony not lost on Leo, who had tried, when he was younger, to teach him to distinguish the different tints. A mutual lack of patience had scuppered these lessons, to Matt’s relief.)

  ‘I was explaining,’ he said to Matt with no hint of apology, ‘that my interest lies principally in colour. I like to call myself a colourist. Regrettably, as you know, painting is rather out of fashion these days, for the powers that be. Too obvious isn’t it? Squeezing a tube of acrylic, splodging it onto a canvas? Much more cutting edge to use video or sound installations. Or to be a sculptor
– especially if you work in an unusual medium. Mouldy bread. Blood or piss or shit. The trouble with shit, for me at any rate, is that it’s basically brown. And brown is boring. No?’

  The journalist smirked as she jotted her notes. The photographer hunkered down onto his haunches and angled his impressive lens at Conflagration 2. (Conflagrations 1 and 3 had been bought several years ago to face each other in the foyer of an insurance company in Leeds.)

  Matt said, ‘That’s not the point. You should have asked before coming into this room. The material in these files is confidential. It’s necessary sometimes for me to bring them home from work but it’s totally outrageous that you’ve allowed the press to sift through them.’

  ‘But we didn’t…’ the woman began.

  ‘Leo can’t use his hands,’ said Matt. ‘So there’s no way he could have cleared my desk, is there?’

  ‘I can assure you nothing has been disturbed. Some of the folders were obscuring the painting, so we got them out of the way. Nobody has opened a file or read a single word. I promise.’

  ‘And I can assure you,’ said Matt fiercely, ‘there would be very serious consequences if that wasn’t the case. I could get an injunction—’

  ‘Oh my goodness!’ she interrupted. ‘I’ve just realised who you are.’

  Matt immediately feared, despite her protestations, that she’d recognised a name on a folder, knew one or more of his clients. But she said in a tone of admiration: ‘You’re his son!’

  ‘Whose son?’

  ‘You saved your father’s life,’ she said. ‘He’s told us about it. How he was trying to salvage his work, how he refused to give up. He wouldn’t admit it was too late. Which it was of course, and if you hadn’t stopped him…’

  ‘I’d’ve been toast,’ said Leo.

  ‘That’s an exaggeration,’ said Matt.

  ‘I don’t believe so.’

  ‘It’s a splendid human interest story,’ said the journalist. ‘It must have been a terrifying moment, when you had to decide whether to go after him or not, whether you’d be risking too much. Maybe you’d like to give us your take on it?’

  It wasn’t a decision; it was an automatic reaction. ‘No, not really.’

  She looked puzzled, as if she’d never met a man who didn’t want to be hailed as a hero.

  He added, ‘And if you’ve got what you came for, I’d like my study back please.’

  ‘We can take some shots out the front,’ said the photographer. ‘Nice scene of devastation, that.’

  Nice scene of devastation? Still seething, Matt waited for them to collect their belongings and held open the door. As the trio trooped through, the journalist lifted her tape recorder invitingly. ‘Sure you won’t change your mind?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  While they were outside completing the interview and photo-shoot he replaced his laptop and rows of folders on the desk. Had Leo really suggested that he’d saved his life? What a piece of nonsense. Presumably he wanted to make the whole rescue operation sound more dramatic. Matt tried to think back, to relive the scene, but it had happened too fast to be stored as a logical sequence: the onrush of air kindling the fire, his pursuit of Leo, hauling him out of the danger zone. He’d followed his instincts, that was all.

  The powerful smell of smoke would linger around him for days, but no images came to mind. He could recall only the sensation of Leo’s resistance, of physically grappling with him on the ground. This brought a faint echo of their play-fighting years before. In those days Leo had generally won. This time I beat him, thought Matt. I forced a man in flames to submit to my power. What kind of a victory is that?

  He left the study and locked the door. He didn’t like the idea of locked rooms, the implication he had something to hide, but these were exceptional circumstances. Sometime in the future – he couldn’t see it clearly yet – the dust would settle. Leo would leave, Rachael would explain Kelly’s gossip was the result of an absurd misunderstanding and the three of them would be able to get on with family life, undisturbed. He was beside the fridge in the kitchen, wrenching the top off a beer bottle, when Leo loped back indoors.

  ‘Excellent idea,’ he said, with a nod towards the San Miguel. ‘Can you open one for me?’

  ‘How are you going to drink it?’ Usually Leo closed his fist round a bottle and necked it with gusto.

  ‘Your kid had the right idea. Got me a straw. Just the answer for cold drinks.’ He settled himself in a chair in his usual lordly manner. ‘Lovely girl,’ he said, closing his lips on the straw Matt provided, closing his eyes in pleasure as he drank.

  Matt remained standing. ‘Who?’

  ‘Jean… Janette… Janine… The one who was here from the paper. Given me hope, God bless her. Something I could do with right now.’

  ‘You certainly spun her a line.’

  ‘Don’t knock yourself, Matt. Respect where it’s due. I may still be fucking furious that years of my life have gone up in smoke, that I’m in constant mind-numbing pain, but I’m not going to take your grand gesture away from you.’

  ‘It wasn’t a gesture!’

  ‘Didn’t mean to sound patronising. You got to me in the nick of time and like I told you, I am grateful.’

  ‘Then you can do something for me.’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘I want you to leave Rachael alone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not having my wife running around being your nursemaid or whatever.’

  ‘Raquel and I have an agreement,’ said Leo levelly. ‘She doesn’t do anything she doesn’t want to.’

  What the fuck did that mean? Matt longed to dissect the remark, to demand clarification, but he resisted. ‘Then how did the press get here? You can’t even make a phone call. Where did that invitation come from?’

  ‘Oh, I contacted the paper yesterday. Got the nurse who was changing the dressings to dial and put me through. They called me back this morning. Turned out they were really interested. No pressure on Raquel. The last thing I’d want to do is cause her any grief.’

  ‘I hope you mean that. She can be too obliging for her own good sometimes.’

  ‘Too obliging?’

  Christ, the innuendo! The words unsaid were suffocating him. But he had to stay calm; an accusation could misfire. Leo took pleasure in winding people up, in baiting his victims. ‘Look, we never invited you to stay in the first place. You swanned in with no warning, which pissed us both off I can tell you. And then you go and get yourself into a mess like this and expect the whole world to take notice.’

  ‘Matthew,’ said Leo with an air of enormous patience. ‘You know perfectly well I came to see your sister because I’d been worried about her. No doubt Julia summoned her overseas to spite me. But I don’t see why I should become the scapegoat. I shouldn’t have to remind you that I am not the person who set fire to your fucking garage. Nor am I the person who left valuable works of art casually lying about in it.’

  ‘No, that was Rachael,’ said Matt, for the pleasure of seeing Leo crestfallen.

  ‘Not your mother?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Anyway I’m not talking about the fire.’

  ‘I don’t see how you can avoid it—’ he waved his arms in the air ‘—when this is the consequence. A few days of TLC and I should be on my feet again.’

  ‘There was another reason you came here, wasn’t there? Tell me about it.’

  Leo said, ‘I know I have a reputation as a troublemaker, but your mother can give as good as she gets. I don’t understand why she’s being so difficult. I didn’t want things to go so badly between us.’

  You should have thought of that a few years back, swore Matt silently. Kept your fucking dick in your pants. Aloud he said, ‘You can hardly blame her.’

  ‘It seemed an extreme form of punishment.’

  ‘What did?’

  ‘Nothing for you to worry about. Julia may have misled me, but your Raquel has set m
e right. All sorted now.’

  He was talking in riddles. Matt would have liked to throw his empty beer bottle at Leo’s head. Instead he thumped it on the table in frustration. ‘About my wife,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why she had to “set you right”, but here’s the thing. Like I told you, you’re not to bother her any more.’

  ‘Bother her!’ exclaimed Leo with a pained expression.

  ‘Rach has already had to deal with one invalid in the house. She needs a break. In fact we would both like some time together.’ He kept his voice steady. ‘I’m off work now till Tuesday so if you have to stay here till then and you need help dressing, making phone calls et cetera… I’m prepared to do it for you. But that’s the limit. Okay? I don’t want her involved.’

  ‘Hands off?’ said Leo, holding them up as if Matt were pointing a pistol at him.

  ‘That’s right. You’ll keep to yourself and do as I say as long as you’re in our house.’

  There, he’d done it, made it clear: our house, my wife. He’d drawn a line Leo was forbidden to cross.

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Do you? Really?’

  At that moment he caught the familiar sound of Rachael’s return: the car revving through the gateposts, then jolting to a halt because she’d taken her foot off the clutch and pulled on the handbrake too soon. He heard the engine stall, the clang of the passenger door as Danny slammed it shut, the electronic beep of the central locking system.

  Leo heard it too. ‘This is your territory,’ he agreed. ‘I have no intention of coming between the two of you. I shall make myself scarce. Any chance of another San Miguel before I start on my trip back to Colditz?’

  Matt snapped open a second bottle and held it out.

  ‘Don’t worry. I shan’t ask you for anything else,’ said Leo a little grumpily as he stowed the beer under his arm. His movements were slow and shuffling and he bumped into Rachael on his way out of the kitchen. Her face flushed a deep pink as she squeezed past him and saw the guarded way Matt was appraising her.