Mainlander

by Will Smith

  The impulse had faded when he found the house and saw the lights within, but the sense of duty remained as an ache.

  Now he gave himself to the end of the album, turning up the volume on the long fade of ‘Brothers in Arms’, a song of bravery and loyalty, savouring the full intensity of the solo, then sat staring ahead as if hypnotised by the tape hiss. The cassette clicked to a stop and he switched off the electrics, got out of the car and walked towards the front door.

  Three firm knocks led to the wide, low burgundy door swinging open under its sagging frame and a small woman, her greying hair held back in an Alice band, peering out at him.

  ‘Mrs Labey, I’m Colin Bygate, Duncan’s English teacher.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I remember you from parents’ evening. You said he had a flair for practical criticism.’ She smiled sweetly but firmly, giving no sense of disquiet.

  ‘Yes, he does. Very bright son you have. Is he back yet?’

  ‘No. We’ve still no idea where he is.’

  ‘I presume Mr Le Brocq told you I saw him at Grosnez on Thursday, and that he also wrote me a letter.’

  ‘He did. He said you bumped into him looking at the castle.’

  Colin hesitated. He couldn’t bear to tell her his awful suspicion. ‘Yes. And then the next day he wrote me a letter, saying he wouldn’t come back to school unless he talked to me. Unfortunately I missed him and—’

  ‘You look awfully burdened, Mr Bygate. Please don’t be. Especially now he won’t be going back to school at all.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Apologies, I see you’ve not been kept fully informed. I’d rather not discuss this further if it’s all the same …’ She began to close the door.

  ‘I went to the police earlier. They seemed very blasé.’

  The door stopped halfway. ‘Why ever did you do that, you silly man? Come in – I don’t want next door hearing all of this. Their bloody curtains are twitching already.’

  Colin stepped inside. ‘I have a similar problem with my neighbour.’

  ‘Everyone does, affliction of the Island. I’m afraid I’ve never quite got used to it.’

  ‘You’re not born and bred, then?’

  ‘No, I’m a Somerset girl.’

  ‘Ah, I’m Bristol.’

  ‘Fancy that.’

  She took him through to the drawing room, the walls of which were hidden by a cram of pictures that gave the effect of a mosaic, featuring seascapes, naval vessels, old maps and engravings of Victorian Island scenes.

  Duncan’s balding father put down the paper and stood up from his green velvet winged armchair. He had one eye that stared out further than the other, as though he was missing a monocle, although Colin couldn’t be sure whether this was an effect of the low light, which came from a reading lamp and the flickering of a fire.

  ‘Arthur, this is Mr Bygate, Duncan’s English teacher.’

  The father offered his hand and a whiff of hair tonic.

  ‘I’m sure he meant well, but he’s been to see the police about Duncan,’ she continued.

  ‘Hell’s teeth, man, what did you do that for? Is this Le Brocq’s idea of keeping a lid on things?’ exploded the man.

  ‘Mr Le Brocq has just kept saying that the situation will resolve itself, which to me seemed … irresponsible.’

  ‘Duncan will turn up, and he’ll face the music from us,’ intoned Duncan’s mother, with an odd resignation, as though she was talking about unavoidable frost damage to a rose. ‘Le Brocq will say nothing provided Duncan is moved to another school, probably on the mainland. Which is best for all concerned. So, you see, there really is no cause for concern, Mr Bygate. Matters are in hand.’

  ‘I don’t see why Duncan should have to move schools, and board on the mainland, simply for truanting.’

  ‘Truanting’s just the tip of the bloody iceberg,’ fumed the father. ‘And here’s the rub. If Le Brocq would take him back, I wouldn’t send him there. I would not want my son at a school that overlooked cannabis peddling. My son’s a bloody drug runner. He’s damn lucky Blampied didn’t call the police.’

  ‘Arthur, please, how is that keeping things quiet?’

  ‘I think once Mr Bygate realises the seriousness of the issue it’ll stop him making it worse by trying to involve the authorities. The reputation of the school is at stake here. The Queen is not going to show up at a place where pupils deal drugs, then threaten to accuse teachers of touching them up when they’re caught bang to rights.’

  ‘Duncan said Mr Blampied assaulted him? Sexually?’

  ‘He told Blampied that was what he would say if he went to Le Brocq or to the police,’ said the old man, staring wistfully at the fire.

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Caught him with it on Thursday, apparently. Idiot. First Labey in four generations not to finish at that school.’

  ‘Poor Mr Blampied didn’t know what to do,’ enjoined the mother, sympathetically. ‘Once Duncan had disappeared, of course he went straight to Le Brocq. We only found out all of this yesterday.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we be trying to find Duncan, to hear his side?’

  ‘What do you mean, “his side”?’ sneered the father. ‘There are no sides. There is only the truth.’

  ‘But we have only Mr Blampied’s version of events.’

  ‘You would doubt a colleague?’

  ‘You would doubt your son?’

  ‘Of course I would, if he said something ridiculous. Which in this case he has. I was at school with Aidan Blampied’s father. The man was not raised a liar.’

  ‘Duncan obviously panicked at what a mess he’d made of the situation. He’ll come back when he realises there’s nowhere to go. But, like I say, we’d rather all this was kept within the four walls, Mr Bygate,’ added the mother, her eyes wide with admonishment. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I have a quiche in the oven that will be burning.’

  Half an hour later, Colin walked into his flat to see Emma sitting on the sofa, her face set against him, he presumed because of his unexplained absence.

  ‘Sorry,’ he began, ‘I know you don’t like me going on about work all the time, but there’s a pupil who’s missing. I went to see his parents, who are just weird, so cold. Don’t repeat this, but it sounds like he was caught with drugs by a teacher he then accused of making a pass at him. It’s a total mess.’

  ‘Sounds bad,’ she said neutrally. ‘You have some post – I opened it by mistake. Thought it said “Mrs Colin Bygate”.’ She gestured to a card poking out of its envelope on the coffee table.

  ‘Fine, no worries. What is it? One of Mum’s epics?’

  ‘No, I know her writing and, besides, I don’t want to read anything negative about myself.’

  ‘Come on, she really likes you. That was one day, and everyone was a bit tired.’ Emma had once overheard Colin’s mother refer to her as ‘abrupt’. ‘It was my fault – I forgot to spike her tea with gin.’

  Emma was unmoved by his attempt at levity. ‘You should read it.’

  Colin picked up the card, which had the image of a little girl walking by a stream with a hand on a protective-looking bear, and felt himself colour under the affronted gaze of his wife and the recognition of Debbie’s handwriting. He scanned it quickly, praying for nothing incriminating – but how could there be? There had been no crime. Yet something had to explain the smart of betrayal that Emma clearly felt.

  Dear Colin,

  I thought it best to write as you seem to be avoiding me at school and there are things I really need to say to you. I haven’t slept well since you rebuked me for behaving as your girlfriend, out of guilt, embarrassment, shame, and the realisation that feeling like that was what I enjoy about our friendship, and that I have been fooling myself into hoping that you felt the same way. I realise that I have emotionally overstepped the bounds of friendship, which is not healthy for either of us. For you, because you are married, and for me also because you are married. Allow me to say this once on paper, for
I shall never summon the strength to say it in person: I wish that you weren’t. But you are, and I need to remember that. However, I do not think I am entirely to blame. The way you are with me made me forget that you are a husband to someone else. Like I say, I overstepped the bounds, but I always felt that you were beckoning me on. I’m not accusing you of deliberately misleading me, rather of a minor carelessness that has resulted in a major heartbreak.

  That said, maybe this honesty, combined with a little bit of time, will enable us to renew our friendship on an acknowledged platonic basis. That is my hope for, if you will allow me one last moment of disinhibition, I miss you greatly.

  Your friend,

  Debbie

  Colin’s hands fell to his sides. ‘Emma …’ he began, trailing off in the expectation that she would interrupt with a tirade, but she just stared at him. ‘This is awkward, but she makes it clear, nothing ever happened …’

  ‘That’s because you’re a fucking coward.’

  ‘No, it’s because I’m your husband.’

  ‘That’s all that’s stopping you, though, isn’t it? If you weren’t married to me, you’d be with her. Is that why you hate me?’

  ‘Of course I don’t hate you.’

  ‘Well, you don’t love me. You haven’t made me feel loved for a long time.’

  ‘That’s not true! I love you—’

  ‘You don’t make any effort with me—’

  ‘What about your birthday?’

  ‘When you took me to a flash hotel so you could fuck me? Like some kind of whore?’

  ‘Hey, listen—’

  ‘Were you thinking of her? Is that how you came? Imagining you were in her cunt rather than mine?’

  ‘You’re being horrible. Don’t use that word.’

  ‘How about from now on you fuck me from behind, make it easier to pretend it’s her, or should I get a mask made? And a tit job? Is that why you like her? Because her tits are bigger? Or do you like me because I’m flatter, so you can pretend I’m a boy, you fucking faggot?’

  ‘Shut up! All right? Fucking shut up! What are you talking about?’ Colin screamed, as he lunged towards her.

  ‘You want to hit me? Is that what you want to do?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous! I would never hit you!’

  ‘Your fists are clenched. I think you want to hit me. Go on, hit me. I deserve it.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Let’s just calm down.’

  ‘So you can sweet-talk me like you did her? No fucking way. Stop being so spineless – make a choice. If you want her, go have her. At least have the guts to tell me you don’t love me, that you love someone else.’

  ‘What is this? Do you want me to leave?’

  ‘Oh, you’d bloody love that, wouldn’t you? That would suit you just fine, let you off the hook!’

  Colin crouched with his hands on his head. ‘This is insane! We both need to take a moment, get some perspective …’

  ‘I agree,’ snapped Emma, and headed for the bedroom, emerging moments later with a small suitcase. ‘I’m going to my parents. You need to think about what you’ve done, and whether you deserve forgiveness.’

  ‘When did you pack?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘You had that bag packed already. You’ve been sitting here, waiting for me, knowing that you were going to judge me whatever I said and walk out.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Is there some miraculous defence that would explain all and restore your fucking angel’s wings? Because it seems you’ve had the chance to offer one, and you’ve said nothing.’

  ‘You’ve been looking for a fight for weeks. Months. You want to go and this is your excuse. You’re the coward.’

  ‘Don’t try your pathetic psychological insights on me. You think you’re so wise and full of insights, and “Oh, I’ve read lots of stupid books so I know about human nature.” Well, I’ll tell you one thing your books can’t tell you. How to fuck me so I’d forgive you anything.’

  With that she was out of the door, and Colin found himself lying on the floor, too numb to cry.

  9

  ROB

  Wednesday, 14 October 1987

  Rob gunned the engine of the Porsche, then added four blasts of the horn in time to the keyboard stabs of Van Halen’s ‘Jump’.

  ‘Bloody grockle,’ he muttered, at the Ford Fiesta hire car squatting on St Clement’s Coast Road, its hazard lights blinking as the driver peered between La Rue de Samares on his left, Green Island car park on his right and the map lying in his passenger’s lap.

  Two miles up the road, Rob had pulled out from the Bretagne brimming with the euphoria of second chances. He’d spent the morning hunkered in his office with Christophe, rowing his personal and professional affairs back from the financial storm, by whose advance gusts he was already being rocked. Item one on the agenda was the liquidation of Rob’s share portfolio, which Christophe insisted was done as a matter of urgency. That money was to be ploughed straight into the business in order to turn zero from a mirage to an actual point on the horizon.

  ‘Jesus,’ Rob had said, ‘you know you’re in the hole when it’ll be a relief to be classed as having no money.’

  That agreed, Christophe had confirmed he could help him assuage his vengeful one-night stand by providing him with ten thousand pounds in cash on Friday morning. His marriage saved, Rob concurred that he would have to make clear to his profligate wife that the era of ‘Whatever you want, darling’ and ‘Rip it out and start again’ was over. The shiny new concepts of ‘budget’ and ‘time frame’ were to be introduced into her dream-home project.

  Having played to Rob’s victim status in helping him bring the women in his life to heel, Christophe had then tried to balance the books of his personal life, cutting a swathe through his indulgences and sparing the playboy no blushes: he didn’t need to be a member of three golf clubs and two tennis clubs, he didn’t need to run the Porsche, the Morgan and the Mini Moke and, given that he had never enjoyed a single theatrical performance in his life, his ownership of a box at the Opera House was nonsensical. Rob protested that having it was about being seen, but conceded that since he never went this was a far from cost-effective self-promotional tool. Christophe had ended on an upswing, pointing out an unused mooring buoy in the bay overlooked by the hotel. Rob could make a considerable annual saving if he was to move his motorboat there from the exclusive marina at St Helier harbour. Rob was delighted by this blatant appeal to his vanity, so much so that having a flash car parked out back and a flash boat moored out front barely registered as a sacrifice. He saw it as a ballsy move, pulling away from the herd, implying they needed his kudos more than he needed theirs.

  ‘Yes-yes-yes, love it!’ he had exclaimed, giving a little two-punch to the air and a triumphant handclap. ‘Bloody Richard Carrière is such a patronising old shit. I mean, he inherited that marina from his dad anyway. What’s he got to be so snooty about?’ Rob thought he saw Christophe’s lips twitch in a smile. ‘Yeah, okay, I know Dad handed me this place, but look what I’ve done with it – will do with it.’ Christophe had assured him he had been smiling at the idea of Carrière losing such a prominent client.

  They had spent another couple of hours restructuring the business plan for the said hotel, although this had largely consisted of Christophe talking and Rob filling the gaps with nods and assertive phrases like ‘Yup, action that’ and ‘Bang. Done. Next.’ His sole contribution, thrown in as he headed off, was the idea of altering the menu in the wake of the putative regal booking.

  ‘Name some shit after her – the Royal Steak, Windsor Pie …’

  ‘What is Windsor Pie?’

  ‘I don’t know – pie with the word “Windsor” in front of it. Leave that to the chefs. This is all about image. We should get her to have afternoon tea. Then we can announce the “Royal Cream Tea” afterwards. Scones and sarnies cost fuck-all, but Telegraph readers with crazy eyebrows will chuck tenners at it, esp
ecially if they think they’re sitting in a seat where the Queen once sat. In fact, wherever they sit, tell them it’s a secret but they’re on “the throne”.’

  He had then set off on a grand mission of financial streamlining. He would visit the sports clubs to terminate his memberships, the garages to arrange the sale of his cars, and the marina to give notice on the berth. He’d also drop in on his stockbroker and quietly close his account, then go home to steer his wife away from the ‘simply must-have’ ranges towards the compromise of overpriced but affordable. Cancelling the theatre box might be tricky – Sally still liked that kind of crap, and her mum was a big noise on the local drama scene. He might present it as something that had to go, which could then be granted a reprieve in return for some compromise on her part, like not spending more on the curtains than the bloody window frames.

  While Christophe had been doing the grunt work, talking through the figures, Rob had been working out how to mitigate the embarrassment of these public financial climb-downs. He’d spin it that the golf clubs were getting the heave because an associate had given him lifetime membership of Gleneagles, that there was no point in belonging to two tennis clubs when he was having his own court built at the house, that the Porsche’s sublimity meant his arse only made biannual contact with the seats of his other cars, and that he wanted to be able to see his boat from the window of his office. The disposal of his shares would never become public knowledge: Rick was bound by confidentiality. Sally he would come clean with. All riches were finite. Even Croesus had had to tell his wife, ‘Stop.’ He was pumped and ready, the sun had shone, the traffic had flowed and he felt the hand of Fate beckoning him forward, like a policeman telling him to cross a junction. And just when he should have been opening up the throttle while Eddie Van Halen demonstrated why he was the world’s greatest guitarist (Clapton and Knopfler being close second and third) by hammering up and down the fretboard, like Bach with a Gibson, Rob’s mojo was being crushed by the chicken-headed tit blocking the road in front of him.