Two hours later, he was staring into the toaster while the edges of the bread turned black when the sound of a key crunching into the front-door lock startled him from his daze. He popped the toast out and threw it in the bin. ‘Tim? I thought you were upstairs. Do you want a pizza or should we try cooking pasta again?’ he called.
‘I’m up for pasta.’
Nick whirled round to find Bill standing in the doorway.
‘I hope you don’t mind that I let myself in with the spare key your dad gave me.’
Nick shook his head.
Bill gave a hesitant smile when Nick continued staring at him. ‘Right, then. Saucepan.’ He bent and pulled a pot out of the cupboard.
Nick backed up to give him space then stood staring vacantly at the side of Bill’s face as he tipped salt into the water in the pan. One teaspoon, a shrug, another.
‘My ex-wife always said the key with pasta was to put plenty of salt in the water. Of course, she never said what “plenty” amounts to for the culinary deficient among us.’
When Nick didn’t laugh, Bill put a gentle hand on his shoulder and steered him to a chair. Nick craned his head sideways to watch him, frowning, but though he opened his mouth once, he shut it again without saying anything.
‘Now, where does pasta sauce live?’
Nick watched Bill opening cupboard doors, one after the other.
‘Am I getting any warmer?’
‘On the left,’ Nick whispered. He swallowed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he blurted out. ‘I didn’t … I didn’t mean to be ungrateful.’
Bill turned with a smile, which quickly became a frown. ‘It’s not a question of gratitude, Nick.’
Nick looked away with a shrug.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you when we talked on Tuesday. I just thought it would be nice for you to get away from everything for a little bit.’
Nick pushed hurriedly to his feet and started setting out cutlery. ‘It would have been nice,’ he whispered over the clatter of the silverware. ‘It would have been lovely if you weren’t just doing it for my dad.’
‘Talking to the table again? Gotta keep those forks in order,’ Bill called from his place at the stove. ‘I couldn’t get away before now, but you’ve been rather pointedly dodging my calls, so I figured I’d better come in person to apologise for whatever I said that made you so upset. I really did mean well, you know.’
Nick let the pepper grinder topple out of his hands. He’d always hoped against hope that Bill didn’t see things for how they were with Michael. But he did. Of course he did. And he felt bad about it. Was trying to do the decent thing. But that was all it was. Kindness and pity, not love: that was all it ever was.
‘I’ve got to go,’ someone said in a thin, desperate little voice, and then he was out on the street, running, running.
‘Is everything all right?’ Tim called, peering down from the landing.
Bill let his hand fall from the door latch. ‘I can’t seem to do anything right with Nick this week. I don’t suppose you know where he would run off to?’
Tim frowned, starting down the stairs. ‘You could try his mobile.’
‘I doubt he’d answer. He’s not happy with me.’
‘If you need to head home again—’
‘No, no. If nothing else, maybe I’ll get points for sticking around. I imagine Michael does precious little of that when things get difficult.’
Tim grimaced. ‘Has Michael always been like this?’
‘God, I hope not.’ Bill sighed, leading the way back to the kitchen. ‘I’ve never wanted to push things – tread on Mike’s toes – but I’m starting to think perhaps I should have … I don’t know. Done more, I guess, even if it was interfering.’
Tim busied himself setting a little pan on the hob next to the pot of water and tipped the jar of sauce into it. ‘While we’re on the subject of failures to communicate with Nick, I managed to say completely the wrong thing the other night because I’m obviously missing something important about what happened to his mum.’ He raked a hand through his hair. ‘I’m not volunteering for any cosy heart-to-hearts on the subject,’ he added quickly, ‘but I don’t want to be cruel out of ignorance.’
Bill pushed his fingers up under his glasses to rub at his eyes. ‘Yvette … Yvette was always very … fragile. When she and Mike split up, I didn’t really see Nick much for a while. Then one day Mike gets this call. Yvette has had some sort of breakdown – bad enough that they institutionalised her on the spot – and Roger point-blank refuses to look after Nick for another day. It’s a bolt from the blue, so Mike’s trying to find out what’s going on, whether Nick’s there to live with him permanently, and it’s the middle of term so we’re scrambling about, trying to get Nick into a new school …’
Leaning back against the counter, he stared blankly into the floor. ‘Yvette wouldn’t take calls from Mike or Nick, wouldn’t let either of them visit. Eventually she got out of the hospital, but she ended up back in another one about a month later. Then another … It was pills in the end: she hoarded them, then did a bunk from the hospital. A dog-walker found her on the beach a few days later.’ He sighed, looking away, not wanting to see Tim’s reaction. ‘Look, Tim, I know this is a bit awkward, but you’re the one who’s reliably here. If … if I gave you my number, do you think you could call me if … if …’
‘If Nick needs help?’ Tim shrugged, pulling a face. ‘I’ll do what I can, but I’m not going to snitch on him about every little thing. And you know I’m away for a week at the start of term for my sister’s wedding—’
The front door snicked shut. A moment later, Nick appeared in the doorway. He started at seeing them both, then ducked his head.
‘Think we’re about ready to eat,’ said Bill gently. ‘How about you finish setting the table?’
Nick’s head came up. After a moment, he gave a tentative smile. Bill nodded, smiling back, and busied himself with straining the pasta.
‘Just going to run upstairs,’ Tim said, leaving them to it.
‘I thought you’d have gone.’ Nick directed the words past Bill’s left shoulder.
‘I wasn’t going to go before we’d talked, Nick. Not when I’d upset you so much. You know that was the last thing I meant to do – at least I hope you know that.’
Nick nodded, turning away to fetch drinks.
‘I’m sorry, Nick. For whatever I said that hurt you so much.’
Nick flinched, raising a shoulder as if to ward off a blow.
‘I really was just trying to help. Because I do want to help. If I can. You know you can always call me, whenever you want. For any reason. If you need someone to talk to or … or somewhere to get away to …’
Nick turned then, stared up at him with those steady, unblinking blue eyes. Bill tried not to wriggle under the intensity of that gaze, knowing he was being weighed, but a spatter of sauce from the boiling pot distracted him and the opportunity was gone.
‘Thank you,’ Nick said politely. ‘I appreciate that, Bill.’
Bill felt his neck flame with a mix of anger and frustration, wondering how he’d managed to set himself a dozen paces back with Nick all in one disastrous day. It had been years since Nick had been so coolly distant.
‘Right, are we ready to eat?’ Tim called as he trotted back into the kitchen.
It was only when they sat down that they realised Nick had put the knives and forks on the wrong sides of the plates, had set out drinks but no glasses. He wouldn’t meet Bill’s eyes during the meal, or as they cleared up, washed the dishes, put everything away.
‘I’m sorry I have to go,’ Bill said, trying to catch Nick’s gaze as Nick helped him into his coat an hour later.
‘It was really nice of you to come all this way to check up on me. Thanks for dinner,’ Nick said blandly. ‘Have a safe journey home.’
Chapter 22
(Easter Vacation [≈ start of April])
The library was cool and furiously hushed, full of anxious f
inalists carrying enormous piles of books to the reading desks, flicking through one then another and then another, putting off any actual work for as long as possible before subsiding to scribble frantic notes that would make no sense even to them by the end of the day.
The light moved the shadows from one side of the shelves to the other. The wide padded window seat on the third floor had become a familiar haunt over the past fortnight. With Tim using every waking moment of the holidays to boost his finances ahead of his trip to America, the house had become empty. Even in the comfort of the front bay window at home, clear bright sunlight making the carpet warm under his feet, Nick suddenly felt strange and out of place. He’d taken to wandering the town, where at least the act of walking helped against the strange churning in his stomach, as if disaster were stalking him, just visible at the edges of his vision.
During term-time, the Jerwood library had always been a place he could be alone without feeling lonely, with the Cam below and Clare and King’s stretching out at his feet, books and fellow students all around. Only it hadn’t been like that recently, and especially today.
Nothing was what he’d hoped for from Cambridge. The work was usually interesting, rarely too hard. He was developing basic friendships with Susie, Frank and some of the others in their Thursday study group. Then there was Tim. And Ange, dropping by to brighten the house with hugs and laughter.
But for a while there had been the boat club: people he belonged with, even if he didn’t particularly like them.
Most of all, there had been Professor Gosswin. College felt empty without her: without the possibility of dropping into her set when it felt like the world was closing in, dark and grey.
It had all become somehow precarious, like he was still waiting for life to start: waiting for happiness to catch up with him, though he’d thought for a while that it was finally on the horizon. Maybe if time could just stop for a while, he’d be able to figure it out, but it kept grinding on, rushing him forwards without anything changing for the better.
He’d started dreaming of the fish tank almost every night: it felt like a warning, though with his work on track – tasks ticked off daily on the revision timetable he’d drawn up for the eight weeks until the exams – he couldn’t think what trouble could lie ahead that he wouldn’t be able to avert. He was changing what he could in his life, doing everything possible to ensure his First, and as for the rest – the friendships he’d hoped to make – wisdom said that if he’d tried and failed, maybe it was time to accept that it couldn’t be changed. At least not for now.
Sighing, he tucked his notes into his pocket, fetched his new bike from North Court and headed off to HM Prison UL.
For a while he browsed the latest exhibits in the chilly underground exhibition centre. Then he walked the central hall, staring up at the criss-cross plasterwork of the vaulted ceiling. In the stacks, he played with the timer dials on the ends of the bookcases that turned on stretches of dim lighting, buzzing a countdown until they clicked off, plunging the narrow passages between the shelves into darkness again.
When the closing bell rang at seven to signal the quarter-hour warning, he trailed out into a bitter evening wind after the last harried students. Shivering, he wheeled his bike into Burrell’s Walk then pedalled slowly down to the crossing. Riding down Garret Hostel Lane was like sailing along a raised causeway with ditchwater glinting coldly on either side. The wrought-iron lamp posts threw round patches of yellow light on to the railings and illuminated the odd clump of bulrushes on the dark banks. He dismounted at the bridge, too tired to pedal up the steep hump, then continued into Trinity Lane, following it round to the left and then crossing Trinity Street into Rose Crescent.
As he locked his bike to a lamp post, a homeless man who looked little older than Tim was asking a passer-by for change.
When Nick crossed out of Gardies with an extra packet of fries, the relief on the man’s face as Nick offered the paper bag made his throat ache. ‘It’s just chips,’ he said, ‘but at least it’s hot.’
‘’S kind of you. Appreciate it,’ croaked the man. His lip cracked as he forced a smile, a drop of blood welling vivid against his skin. ‘First person who’s stopped in an hour.’
Nick gave him a tentative smile, left him sinking a chip slowly between his lips, his tongue curling around it, licking away the salt as if he were tasting champagne.
The pavement was already slick with dew as he wheeled his bike back to College, left it in the North Court racks, then trotted down to the river. Perched cross-legged on the wall, the toes of his trainers sticking out over the eight-foot drop to the water, he huddled into his jacket and forced the food down, though his throat felt like it had closed. As if he had been crying.
When he finished, he tossed the bag into the bin and turned to go, only for his feet to return to the wall. It was quiet and still in the dark. The cold pushed the swirl of thoughts from his head as if he’d moved through a storm to the calm beyond.
Eventually, he checked his watch, slipped his phone out of his pocket and dialled home. The answering machine picked up. ‘Hey, Tim. Just reporting in. I should be home in half an hour so don’t send out the search party. I’ve already eaten.’
Pedalling up KP ten minutes later, his face stinging in the wind, he thought he saw someone waving to him outside St Catz. Before he had a chance to raise his hand, a girl darted in front of his bike to join her friends.
The water in Hobson’s Conduit looked thick and oily as the bike juddered over the cobbles on to Trumpington Street. The Fitzwilliam Museum loomed white and immense to his right. The Botanic Gardens sailed past on his left, mist creeping stealthily out of the dyke to garland the bushes by the fence. The rains had raised the level of the ditchwater so that the surface caught the light in odd flashes past the railings curtaining it from the path along the road.
Something slammed into his right arm just above the elbow.
The bike spun ninety degrees to face the path, throwing him over the handlebars so that he hit the raised pavement with his shoulder, tumbling helplessly head over heels.
The world wheeled around him.
Blinding pain as his arm impacted against one of the railing posts.
As he curled over, the ground dropped away and he fell.
The cold of the water hit him like a blow, forcing his mouth open in a gasp.
Filthy, silted liquid rushed over his teeth, around his tongue, down his throat.
Thrashing, still disoriented, with no idea which way was up or down, the world rolled dark and icy over and around him.
Striking out, his hand sank into thick, heavy mud and he pushed off. His face broke the surface. Flailing wildly, he managed to get his knees under him. Bent over, waist deep in freezing water, he hacked and choked and gasped as his lungs seized against the pain of silt in his breath. His eyes streamed as brackish water rose up his throat and into his mouth, slick with mud and mucus. For a while there was nothing but the need to breathe.
Gradually the coughing jags subsided.
When he finally lifted his head, he realised he was kneeling in the ditch. Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he pushed up, staggering as the mud reached out a thousand hands to hold him down. Grabbing a handful of grass on the bank, he hauled himself upwards, heard his feet suck loose from the bed of the ditch. He slithered up the bank on his belly then crawled under the bottom rung of the railings and let himself collapse on to the path, panting.
The cold forced him back to his feet. He staggered against the railing, clinging as he fought for balance, then slid down into a huddle, knees drawn up to his chest. Pressing his face against the sodden fabric of his jeans, he raised a shaking hand to feel at his arm. The skin above his elbow felt tight and hot.
Cars passed steadily on the street but there was no one on the pavement in either direction. Looking to the side, through the curtain of his dripping hair, he saw his bike, chain trailing, front wheel dented, lying in a heap. One of t
he lights had come off and shattered. Pieces of red glass littered the path like fresh blood.
Trying to draw a deep breath, he winced as his chest protested, clenching painfully. One fist pressed to his breastbone, he clawed his way up the railing to his feet, then reluctantly bent to grab a handlebar and pull the bike upright. Reaching clumsily into his pocket, he realised that his phone was gone, presumably lost in the mud at the bottom of the ditch.
As the shivers took hold, thrumming through his muscles like electricity, he turned the bike and, using it to support his weight, started wearily up the street again.
It’s just a mile, he told himself. Fifteen hundred metres. Three thousand steps.
As he turned into Brooklands Avenue, the trees blocked the worst of the wind, but by the time he reached Hills Road and cut across to Warren Close his teeth were chattering so badly he had to lock his jaw to stop it burning with pain.
Across Station Road into Tenison.
The shivers became convulsive, shuddering up from his stomach so that he stumbled against the bike, driving it into a lamp post, a garden wall, a road sign. His fingers stopped burning with pain, grew numb, though his trainers continued to squelch nastily, rubbing blisters into his ankles and toes. His jeans had grown so stiff and heavy he wondered if they’d started to freeze solid.
The thought surprised a bark of laughter from his mouth. Someone crossed to the opposite pavement away from him.
‘Hot shower,’ he whispered to a cat eyeing him disdainfully from a fence post. ‘Not far.’
The shivers were so bad now he felt as if he were on the brink of retching.
The world narrowed to the next fifty metres. The next twenty. The next ten.
He’d been cold, cold, cold forever.
When he reached the house, he could barely bend his fingers to work the latch on the garden gate. He let the bike topple sideways on to the hydrangea bush and staggered to the house. Leaning against the door, he managed to work his key out of his pocket but couldn’t hold it still enough to get it into the lock. Finally, he forced it in, wrenched it to the left and stumbled inside. The hall was dark and he immediately fell over the mat.
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