by John Purcell
‘Did you know Daniel?’
‘Yes, we met when he came to stay. Are you all right?’
‘No, I’m not. It’s my fault. What can I tell the boys?’
‘It’s not your fault. I’ll try to track down Malcolm and look after Helen. Do you have someone there?’
‘My parents are here. Thank you. This is awful. Awful. Goodbye.’
Amy stared at the phone and then at the photo of Daniel on the hall table. She couldn’t fathom that he was dead. It didn’t seem possible. He didn’t seem to her the sort of person who’d kill himself. He had every reason to do it but so did most people. Few actually went through with it.
Amy went into the kitchen and poured herself a wine. She’d been horrible to Daniel. She downed the glass and poured herself another. She’d said such horrible things to him. And then she remembered the message she’d received from him. What was he sorry for?
Helen’s behaviour had rattled her, too. Her son was dead and she was high as a kite. Or so it seemed. Amy wasn’t trained for this kind of thing. She wasn’t someone who knew what to say in terrible circumstances. She wondered where Malcolm was. He was normally home at this time. She didn’t want to be the one to tell him. He would be devastated. He had mentioned Daniel so often since he’d left.
She went downstairs to get her phone.
‘Max.’
‘Hello, Amy.’
‘I need your help. Helen and Malcolm’s son Daniel has died. I’m here alone with Helen who doesn’t seem to understand what’s happened and Malcolm is missing. She doesn’t know where he is.’
‘Malcolm’s with me. We’re down at the King’s Head having dinner.’
‘Oh, thank god! Don’t say anything to Malcolm, but can you get him back here as soon as possible?’
‘We’ll leave asap.’
Amy went back upstairs to the front room.
Helen was sitting on the sofa bolt upright. The TV was muted and she looked at Amy as she came in. Her eyes were wet.
‘Amy, something has happened.’
‘I know, Helen. I’m so sorry.’
‘What happened? It was terrible. I know.’
‘Geraldine rang. You spoke to her on the phone,’ said Amy, trying to get Helen to recall the conversation rather than being the one to tell her.
‘I feel so confused, Amy. I took something to help me sleep. I had a nap and a bath. Now I feel strange.’
‘What did you take?’
‘Valium.’
‘Do you remember what Geraldine said?’
‘Daniel’s dead. But he’s not. He was here today. You saw him. He was helping with Malcolm’s papers.’
Amy sat down and put her arm around Helen’s shoulders.
‘That was a while ago, Helen.’
‘Where’s Malcolm?’
‘Malcolm’s coming home. He has been with Max. Do you remember Max?’
‘Does Malcolm know about Daniel?’
‘No. He doesn’t.’
‘Why didn’t Geraldine tell him?’
‘He wasn’t home.’
Amy heard the sound of the front door being opened. She jumped up and went out to meet Malcolm before Helen could. She led him into the kitchen and sat him down. Kneeling on the floor in front of him, with her hands in his, she told him the news.
Chapter 51
In the Newspaper
Edinburgh Evening News
The body of Daniel Taylor, son of acclaimed writers Helen Owen and Malcolm Taylor, was discovered in a car in Comiston this morning by NSL staff. Local residents had reported the car on a number of occasions. All attempts by the NSL to contact the owners of the car had failed. It was only after moves were made to impound the car that Taylor’s body was found under blankets on the floor.
Taylor may have been dead for a week, say police. Results from an autopsy are pending but police believe there are no suspicious circumstances.
Taylor’s wife, Geraldine Taylor, was unavailable for comment, but a source close to the family confirmed the marriage had broken down in recent months.
Taylor’s relationship with his famous parents had been strained, a source said, with Taylor often heard describing the writers as cold and distant and his childhood as ‘lonely’.
Daniel Taylor had not been reported missing. He was the father of two young boys.
If you’re affected by these issues and need someone to talk to please reach out to the Samaritans, who can be contacted on 116 123.
Chapter 52
Try Writing about It
Amy carried the wine out to Max, who was sitting on a bench in Helen and Malcolm’s small back garden.
‘Thank you for staying. It’s been really difficult.’
‘You’ve been great with them both.’
‘I barely know them, though, really.’
Amy had thought to sit beside him on the bench. There was room. It might have been done casually. Like friends. But she had thought the better of it. And the moment had gone. She glanced at the other bench but it was a little bit too distant. Sitting there would draw attention to her predicament. Now she was stuck standing.
‘You know them well enough. They’ve practically adopted you.’
‘But this is . . . huge.’
‘There’s no getting over this, either,’ said Max. ‘He was their only child.’
‘The papers have been saying terrible things, too.’
‘I know. I don’t even know her but I feel for Geraldine.’
‘Helen’s asleep now. I gave her a sleeping tablet. I slept in her bed with her last night. She sleeps as poorly as we do. But she said she found comfort in my being there. Malcolm is still sleeping in his office. He hasn’t spoken to Helen. I would have thought this would bring them together.’
‘He thinks she’s dead.’
‘What?’
‘Malcolm. He’s convinced Helen’s dead. It’s what his new novel’s about. And somehow the fiction has become reality for him. In his conversations with me, Helen is his dead wife.’
‘That can’t be true.’
‘I’ve tried correcting him a number of times, but he gets as offended as a man whose wife has actually died being told she’s alive. So I leave it. And we talk about her legacy and her novels as though she’ll never write again. It’s very strange. Unnerving, especially when you know what he believes and you see him interact with her. It’s like he’s trying to overcome mental distress, as though he’s trying to convince himself that the apparition of Helen is just in his mind.’
‘Oh god, Max.’
‘He’s suffering a double loss.’
‘I don’t know how to deal with that.’
‘Try writing about it.’
Amy looked back at the door. The night was cool and she wasn’t dressed for it. Max was fine in his suit. She finished the drink in her hand.
‘I’m getting another, do you want one?’
He held up his full glass.
Inside, Amy looked around for her cardigan. Not seeing it, she grabbed Malcolm’s jacket, which was hanging on the back of the kitchen chair. She filled her glass, put the jacket on and returned to Max.
He laughed.
‘What? Don’t you like my jacket?’
‘Somehow, you pull it off. But then you’d look gorgeous in a Hazmat suit.’
‘It’s because it’s a beautiful beige.’
‘It’s because you’re beautiful.’
Amy tried not to smile and glanced at the bench.
‘I forgot to say. That manuscript you sent me. The one you were too drunk to know whether it was good?’
‘Josh’s book. I’d forgotten about that.’
‘It was rubbish. Utter drivel.’
‘Thought as much.’
Josh seemed like another world. A film she had seen once. He made no sense in Helen and Malcolm’s garden. He made no sense in Max’s presence.
‘Sit here,’ Max said, shifting himself to the edge of the bench, making space for tw
o Amys.
Amy stared at the bench and didn’t move.
‘It’s a seat, not a marriage proposal.’
‘I know,’ she said, perching on the furthest edge from him.
They didn’t speak, however. Max smiled at her, she smiled back. Finally, she stood up.
‘I can’t think when you do that.’
‘Do what?’
‘Be nice to me.’
‘Are you so attached to thinking that you can’t give it up from time to time?’
‘I gave it up for years and look where it got me.’
‘It got you here, with Helen and Malcolm.’
‘And they’ve forced me to think in ways I’m not entirely comfortable with.’
‘Thinking hurts, Amy.’
‘So does feeling.’
Max was staring at her intently. ‘Yes, you taught me that,’ he said after a time.
‘I can’t bear to think of the hurt I’ve caused you, Max.’
‘I was all in, Amy. Do you know what I mean?’
‘I do. And I knew it then. I knew it then.’
Max dropped his head.
‘I’m so sorry, Max.’
After a moment of silence, he stood up, and looked at her, giving her the slightest of nods. He said, ‘I’d better go now.’
‘Thank you, Max.’
‘For what?’
‘Smiling at me.’
*
Later, as Amy climbed into bed beside Helen, she was startled when Helen suddenly roused herself and switched on the light.
‘You don’t need to sleep here tonight,’ she said.
‘I don’t mind,’ Amy replied, pulling the sheets over her. ‘If you’d prefer I didn’t, I can go downstairs.’
‘I don’t know what I want.’
‘Then I’ll stay.’
Helen switched off the light.
Amy closed her eyes and rolled on her side. Everything Max did was a question. He was never silent. There was always an unspoken conversation about the conversation while any conservation with him was in full flight. There were words in every pause.
She’d forgotten how to speak to him. And she wondered if she’d ever be able to again.
Everything had changed so much. She didn’t know herself.
That morning, while shopping at Waitrose with Malcolm, she passed a young guy she recognised. He turned and smiled and was about to approach when Malcolm came up to her with the coffee he had gone in search of. The familiar face winked and wandered off. Following Malcolm with the trolley, Amy searched her memory to put a name to the face. Or even a situation. And it was then it occurred to her that the last time she had had sex was with Liam in the street. She couldn’t remember ever going so long without sex. She couldn’t remember ever not wanting sex. And she realised, as the name of the guy she’d seen popped into her head, that she didn’t want sex.
Ehsan. That was his name. He was Iranian.
He was at the checkout ahead of Amy and Malcolm, and when he was finished he gave Amy an opportunity to speak by fussing with his bags. Amy now remembered the nights she spent with him. He was married. It had given the nights an extra thrill. But now there was nothing. She let the opportunity pass. With a quick wave Ehsan walked out.
And now, in bed, having spoken with Max, she felt nothing but exhaustion. She drifted off to sleep.
*
‘You didn’t have to sleep with him.’
Amy wasn’t sure she heard the words. She opened her eyes and listened.
‘Amy, did you hear me? You didn’t need to sleep with him.’
‘He slept with me,’ she said, knowing Helen meant Daniel.
‘It wasn’t right. He was still married. He was confused.’
‘He was a grown man.’
‘You didn’t need to do it.’
‘Neither did he. Don’t make me responsible for his death.’
‘You need to be more careful with what you have.’
‘I did not kill Daniel. Daniel killed Daniel.’
‘Be careful what you say.’
‘You be careful,’ said Amy, sitting up and turning on the bedside light. ‘I had nothing to do with Daniel’s death. Nothing whatsoever.’
‘We all had something to do with Daniel’s death,’ said Helen, her back to Amy.
‘We all had something to do with Daniel’s life. He was responsible for his death. End of story. Go to sleep.’
‘We all had something to do with Daniel’s life,’ said Helen, barely audible.
‘We all had something to do with Daniel’s life.’
Amy turned off the light and lay back down.
‘I sent him up to Edinburgh,’ said Helen.
‘It was the right thing to do. He needed to be with his boys.’
‘I pushed him. He said he wasn’t ready. I pushed him.’
‘He went because he wanted to go. You didn’t force him to go. He wasn’t a child. He made his own decisions. You need to remember that.’
‘We’d reconciled. We were better than we’d ever been. He felt obliged to do as I asked. It was too early for him and he knew it.’
‘Helen, please go to sleep. We can’t know. We’ll never know. Do you want another tablet?’
‘No. I think I’ll get up.’
Amy reached for her phone. ‘It’s 1 am.’
‘I’ll watch television for a while.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
Chapter 53
Nothing
Malcolm and Trevor talk on the phone:
‘I won’t go to the funeral.’
‘Your son’s funeral, Malcolm?’
‘What’s a funeral? Nothing.’
‘It means things to others. I’d go if I could. They’ll expect you to be there.’
‘What others? I’m alone in my grief. What others?’
‘Geraldine? Your grandsons? Helen?’
‘You talk as if Helen is still with us.’
‘She is, Malcolm. And she’s in as much pain as you are.’
‘Mournful spectre. Let her go then.’
‘Alone?’
‘We all are, aren’t we? Daniel was. For more than a week. More alone than any of us can hope to be.’
‘You have to go, Malcolm.’
‘I do not. I will not. I share nothing with anyone. I’m completely alone. Nothing is nothing to nothing.’
‘Malcolm? Malcolm?’
Chapter 54
Who Were You to Him?
Helen was seated on the edge of her bed. Amy was doing her makeup. There was no talk. It was the morning of Daniel’s funeral. Helen had only decided to go the night before. Luckily, Amy had been able to find a last-minute flight to Edinburgh for them both. She took business-class seats.
Malcolm still refused to go. He lost his temper when Amy tried to argue with him, so she let him be. After Helen’s stress at hearing Malcolm’s raised voice, Amy had only managed to get her into bed at 2 am.
Amy had booked an early flight. She’d set her alarm for 5.30. After only two hours’ sleep, Helen had climbed out of bed. Amy was exhausted, but she climbed out of bed, too. She followed Helen downstairs to the kitchen and let her make a pot of tea for them both. Then they watched TV until Amy’s alarm went off.
Helen was listless. But they needed to go. Amy felt compelled to do Helen’s makeup, dress her and push her out the door.
Helen let her. Without a word.
In the Uber, as Amy stared out of the window at the waking London streets, Helen reached across the empty seat and took Amy’s hand in hers. When Amy turned to look at Helen, she found her face turned to the window. Helen held her hand all the way to the airport. Then they made their way through check-in. On the other side Amy forgot she’d paid business class and bought them each coffee and a pastry. After sitting at their gate for half an hour they boarded their flight.
Helen took hold of Amy’s hand as the plane lifted off the ground.
Amy could only think in short painful burst
s. Even with Helen holding her hand, she’d never felt more alone. Helen and Malcolm’s grief was an impenetrable wall. And would remain so. She loved them both. Max had helped her see that. But did they love her back? Could they love her now?
She wanted to be there for Helen. She felt compelled to be there. She wanted to serve her in any way she could. She would stay close as long as she was needed. But this was all so new to her. This desire to serve. To love. To be loved. She felt exposed and fearful.
Amy hadn’t spoken to her own parents in over a year. The last time she’d spent extended time with them was the week after her graduation. Two days at their house in Kent. She had divorced them effectively. And it had been largely amicable. From time to time her father would email her his thoughts on the latest Jack Cade. Occasionally her mother would send photos of the two of them on some beach, or in New York. But these photos weren’t sent to Amy exactly, they were sent bcc. She never knew if her mother meant to send them to her or not. Nor could she begin to guess who the other recipients were.
Amy felt the tears on her cheek before she realised how sad it all was. She was flying with a woman she barely knew to bury that woman’s son. Helen said she and Daniel had only just reconciled. They’d spent twenty-five years estranged. Twenty-five years.
Amy had been estranged from her parents for almost as long. Since they sent her off to boarding school. Was her mother now clutching the hand of a stranger, too? Did she have regrets? Would she welcome Amy back? Did she want her to sleep beside her, to comfort her?
The plane landed in Edinburgh and the taxi took them down the bypass before heading back up to Morningside Cemetery. The driver had said it was quicker. Amy had no idea where she was, so said nothing.
Helen clutched Amy’s hand, holding it ever more tightly as they went.
The car drove along the east side of Braidburn Valley Park, and Helen said, pointing across the valley, ‘Daniel and Geraldine’s house is on the far hill there. I can’t recall which it is, we were never asked to visit. I’ve only ever seen photos. I used Google maps for the rest.’
‘Is that where the wake will be held?’
‘No, Geraldine’s parents’ house, which is up there somewhere, too. Probably the biggest one.’
‘They lived close by?’