by Lin Anderson
It was then that she saw the man. He had been behind a pillar. He called out and the boy’s face lit up.
The man didn’t come any nearer. It didn’t matter, because Rhona already knew who he was.
Chapter 29
Fiona gave Edward a look that would have cut bread.
‘Why didn’t you keep him here?’ she hissed. ‘It doesn’t look good for the photograph.’
‘I couldn’t help it.’ Edward was at a loss. ‘He just sneaked out without telling me.’
Edward could tell by his wife’s face that it was not a good idea to pursue the matter. Amy’s mother getting ill was damned inconvenient. The caterers had turned up, thank God, but Amy was the one to get the kids organised.
However, nothing was going to spoil this moment for him. Not even Jonathan’s absence. He would only have put on one of those faces and ruined the photograph anyway. He would get round the problem by giving the press a family photo of their own to use, Edward told Fiona.
‘Well,’ he finished triumphantly, ‘What do you think? Damn fine majority. Up a thousand on Labour’s.’
‘Sir James will be delighted.’
‘Sir James is delighted,’ he told her. ‘He’s been in touch. He’d love to be with us tonight, but he’s flying to Paris in the morning. Sends his good wishes to you.’
Edward squeezed Fiona’s arm affectionately. ‘I’d better go and mingle,’ he said.
The sitting room was full. Edward was well aware that he had not been everyone’s favourite nominee and that there would be plenty to sort out once the celebrations had died down, but for the moment he accepted all the congratulations at face value. He walked about shaking hands, making a joke here, an interested enquiry there. Altogether, quite satisfying.
The French windows were wide open and people were spilling out into the warm evening. Edward wandered out too. The warm sun made him feel even more contented. It had taken two long hard years to get here, but it had all been worth it.
He glanced over at Fiona. This kind of life was made for her. She was the perfect MP’s wife. Discreet and supportive, and sexy enough to make him a source of envy among his fellow MPs. You only had to look at the other wives to see how lucky he was. Edward glanced around to confirm his view.
He wasn’t too upset that she didn’t want to be in London all the time. They had agreed against uprooting the children. Even so Edward couldn’t imagine why Fiona would prefer to be in Glasgow during the week, but the arrangement could prove mutually convenient. He for one, would be glad to get away from the daily round of family life, especially the constant friction with Jonathan. The thought of the bachelor life in London was most attractive. He wouldn’t have to worry about the state of the garden either. Even with a part-time gardener, Fiona still gave him grief about it.
Sir James had offered the use of his London flat for a few weeks until he found his own. Damn nice of him really, thought Edward. All mod cons plus housekeeper and no teenagers in sight, sound or smell. Perfect.
Edward’s mind came back to the present. He looked over at the drinks table. Morag was there again, guzzling. Why wasn’t Fiona keeping an eye on the girl, he asked himself.
He threw Morag a pointed look, but she either ignored it or didn’t see it. Edward was on his way over to tell her off when the boyfriend appeared by her side. He said something to her and Morag gazed up at him in adoration. Edward was impressed. Nothing he said to Morag elicited anything like such a response. And Edward had thought he was a waste of space. But he obviously had something to recommend him. To Morag at least.
It was nearly one o’clock when the guests started to leave. He and Fiona stood at the door and shook hands with everyone. Edward could see that Fiona was tired. But she wanted to end the evening properly. Show their supporters that she was made of the right stuff. At last, the house was empty.
‘Will you lock up?’ she said wearily.
‘Morag?’
‘Went to bed earlier. Too much champagne.’
There was still no sign of Jonathan.
‘I’ll leave the big lock off. He’s not usually so late,’ Edward said, switching off the lights in the sitting room.
They climbed the stairs wearily. For once Edward didn’t feel like celebrating his victory by making love. He hoped that being an MP wasn’t going to reduce his sex drive.
Jonathan locked the front door and went into the sitting room. The luminous dial of the clock on the mantelpiece showed four-thirty. Outside, the lawn spotlights cut a strip across the grass and bathed the front of the house in just enough light for him to see the clutter of empty glasses and filled ashtrays.
Amy hadn’t been here tonight. She would never have left a mess like this. Thinking about Amy made Jonathan want to cry. Amy always believed the best of him, even when she knew the truth.
Jonathan found a vodka bottle. He poured himself a shot and took it over to the couch. The dog must have heard him come in because he appeared at the door and plumped himself across his feet.
The warmth and comfort of the body leaning on him made the lump in Jonathan’s throat grow so that he thought he would choke. Tears slid down his face. His arms were shamefacedly agonisingly sore where they had been twisted back with the belt. He swallowed the vodka straight. It seared his swollen tongue and bit his bruised throat. He gagged, reliving Simon’s relentless onslaught on his mouth.
He gathered a cushion in his arms and cradled it, rolling sideways onto the couch, his knees curled up, while the dog whined and licked his face.
Chapter 30
Neil pressed the buttons, then moved the receiver to his other hand, put his arm round Chrissy and pulled her close. The side of his face was still swollen and bruised. Chrissy touched the puffy skin with her lips and he squeezed her shoulders.
‘Maybe he isn’t there?’ she said.
Neil shook his head as someone on the other end lifted the receiver.
‘I want to speak to Jim Connelly.’
Chrissy heard the woman tell Neil her husband was still asleep.
‘I have to speak to him. Tell him it’s important.’
‘What the hell d’you want?’ rasped Connelly. If it’s something about the paper, you should have rung the office.’
‘I didn’t want the office.’
Chrissy watched the nerve twitch on the side of Neil’s cheek. He was concentrating and she knew standing upright for so long was giving him pain.
‘Just shut up and listen,’ he said.
Neil gave Connelly enough information to get his interest, then he set up a meeting. Chrissy heard a grunt of agreement. Neil was right. The newspaper man was hooked.
After the call, Neil slumped, as if his strength had given out.
‘You need to lie down,’ she told him.
He nodded at her, and for once he didn’t have a cocky reply.
****
When Edward swung his feet out of bed the next morning, the floor rose to meet him. He steadied himself on the bedpost, cursed and reached for his dressing gown. His head beat like a drum, and his stomach was heaving as if he was on a Channel crossing. He stood and waited until the floor stopped tilting.
As he headed for the shower, he tried to work out how much drink he’d had. It didn’t usually catch up on him like this. It hadn’t seemed so much at the time, but he’d been talking and he hadn’t had a lot to eat.
He was paying for it now.
He turned the shower knob to power. The needles beat down, but it didn’t help the pain in his head. He promised himself some strong coffee and two headache tablets. Then he would be fine.
As he went downstairs, Fiona called out for him to check Jonathan’s room.
‘I didn’t hear him come in,’ she said.
Edward groaned, (but not loud enough for Fiona to hear), and climbed back up the stairs. Jonathan’s door was tight shut. Edward hated Jonathan to lock his door.
What if there was a fire, he asked himself. He’d said it a million time
s. It hadn’t made any difference.
If he’s been smoking in there, and there was no point in him denying he did it, there was even more chance of a fire.
Edward knocked firmly. Nothing. He tried again, harder this time.
‘Jonathan,’ he called loudly. ‘Answer me, Jonathan. I know you’re in there.’
The ensuing silence was like a grater on Edward’s nerves. This time there was strength behind his anger. He pushed at the door and it rattled under his weight, then stopped against the silly bolt the boy had put on.
‘Stupid thing,’ Edward spat.
It was amazing how much the presence of that little bolt infuriated Edward. A little bolt that split his son’s life from his own. Shut him out. His resentment was making him feel nauseous. He didn’t have time for this. Not this morning. The presence of the bolt insulted him deeply and he had a desire to throw himself against the door with all his might (and fuck his headache). But he resisted the impulse.
He would keep his temper, he told himself. The door was perfect apart from that pretend-brass-bolt. If he tore it off the door, it would harm the wood.
Edward knocked again.
‘For Christ’s sake Jonathan. All you have to do is shout, then I can tell your mother you’re alive.’
Silence.
Edward tutted loudly (much as his own mother used to do), and let go the handle. He was fed up with this. If the door was locked at least that meant that Jonathan was in there. He called up to Fiona to tell her just that, then headed down to the smell of fresh coffee.
While Edward was at breakfast, half a dozen calls came through, including one from Ian Urquhart. Everyone was delighted, Ian said. It was as if the Party had won a General Election. Mind you, thought Edward, winning a Tory seat north of the border felt much like that.
After mutual congratulations were over, Ian asked tentatively if Edward was willing to do a couple of interviews. Ian was savvy enough to expect him to be nursing a hangover.
Of course he was willing, Edward told him tartly, but it depended who it was to be with.
‘Jim Connelly of the Evening Post?’
Edward made a face. He would have to feel a whole lot better, before he was up to a meeting with Connelly.
Fiona and Morag finally appeared at midday. Edward was dealing with correspondence at the kitchen table.
‘You don’t look so good. Hangover?’ Fiona suggested sweetly.
He looked up from his letters. ‘I look a damn sight better than she does,’ he retorted.
Morag was slumped over a plate of cornflakes, looking nothing like the livewire of the previous night. She didn’t even acknowledge the comment.
‘I have an interview here at two o’clock,’ said Edward testily. ‘I hope she’ll be tidied away by then.’
‘Don’t worry, dear. I’ll make sure she’s organised,’ Fiona promised him. ‘No sign of Jonathan yet?’
‘No.’
Edward went back to his letters and Fiona gave an exasperated sigh.
‘I think I’ll go for my shower now,’ she said.
Edward thought she was going to leave him in peace, but it was not to be.
‘Do go and get him up and make him take a shower. Tell him to put on something half decent. You don’t want the press to think you’ve got an imbecile for a son. Do you?’
Edward watched his wife disappear up the stairs.
If they had an imbecile for a son, he thought, surely it was Fiona’s fault? He was sure he’d read somewhere, that a boy got his brains or lack of them from his mother.
He climbed the stairs again, determined to get Jonathan’s door open this time, even if he had to take it off the hinges. Fiona could moan about the mess if she wanted to.
The music was faint, but now that his head had calmed down, Edward was certain he could hear it. Jonathan must have his earphones in, and be completely oblivious to his shouts.
‘Jonathan, I’m coming in now Jonathan.’
Edward lowered his shoulder and gave a good sharp push. The cheap bolt sprung off and hit the polished wooden floor. The door swung open.
The room was in darkness. Edward hated the stale smell of cigarettes. When he’d halved Jonathan’s allowance, he’d hoped to put an end to that particular habit.
Edward walked briskly over to the window and drew the curtains. Sunlight swamped the room. That didn’t do much for his fragile head. He reached for the catch, throwing open the window with a resounding ‘there,’ and turned towards the bed, ready to do battle. It was just as he’d thought. The little idiot had fallen asleep with the earphones in and the compact disc set to play over and over again.
Edward reached for the sleeping form, pulled out the earplugs and threw back the covers. Jonathan didn’t move.
He was lying on one side, still wearing last night’s clothes, knees pulled up against his chest, hands held protectively between them. His son’s foetal position stopped the angry words in Edward’s throat. Jonathan was fifteen years old, but lying like that he looked about five.
Edward touched the shoulder gently, then with more strength. Fear chilled his guts. An arm, suddenly released, fell onto the bed. Now Jonathan’s head was turned towards him. Edward stared uncomprehendingly at his son’s face. The lips were transparent, pulled back across the teeth in a grimace, the blue eyelids shut; and under Edward’s terrified touch, the boy’s skin was cold and slippery as a slug.
Edward rolled him over and shook him harder consumed with panic.
‘Jonathan! Wake up Jonathan!’
He let the head fall back and stumbled to the door, the word ‘ambulance’ forming somewhere in his throat.Fiona met him on the landing. Sounds had come out of his mouth, strangled and incomprehensible. Fiona had come running from the bedroom. Behind her Morag stood, her hand over her mouth. That didn’t stop her hideously piercing scream.
When Edward opened his front door four hours later, Amy came hurrying out of the kitchen to meet him, ashen-faced. It was strange, thought Edward dully, how he had never thought about Amy before, not properly, not about her place in their lives.
When she asked how Jonathan was, Edward was suddenly sorry that he hadn’t let her know. She had stayed here worrying all the time.
‘He’s still weak,’ he said. ‘They pumped his stomach but they’re still monitoring him for liver damage. The paracetemol does that, you know,’ he explained in a voice resembling the one the young doctor had used to him.
‘Dearie me, dearie me. The poor lamb.’
Amy was beside herself. He had always thought of Amy as the cleaner. Someone to give the kids their tea when Fiona and he were late back. Someone to child-mind when they were going out.
She was crying now, the paper hanky soggy and disintegrating in her hands.
‘There, there,’ he said stupidly.
Amy had been with the family since Jonathan was born. Fiona had employed the odd nanny here and there; when she went to her Bridge parties, her tennis club, the health club, but it had never worked. The kids just went down to the kitchen, to Amy. Amy had looked after them, always been pleased to see them. Amy, Edward realised with a start, had been their mother.
‘Come on Amy.’ He laid his hand awkwardly on her shoulder. ‘Why don’t you make us both a cup of tea?’
She stood up, glad to do something.
‘Yes, yes of course, Mr Stewart. I expect you’re hungry. I’ve kept a nice bit of lamb for you.’
Edward followed her through the hall to the kitchen. He suddenly didn’t want to be in the sitting room alone. The kitchen was warm and comfortable. The big maroon oil fired range beat a lazy heat around the room.
‘You sit down, Mr Stewart. I’ll get your tea.’
Edward nodded and sat in the chair next to the stove while Amy bustled about, checking the side oven for his lamb, pulling the big kettle over the hot plate. The dog crept out of its basket and came over and licked his hand. Edward suddenly wanted to cry. It was an unfamiliar feeling.
&nbs
p; Amy set him a place at the table and ushered him over. While he ate, he told her that Fiona was staying at the hospital and that Morag had gone off with her boyfriend for something to eat.
‘Oh, I should have said, Mr Urquhart phoned.’ Amy looked apologetic.
‘You didn’t…’
Amy shook her head.
Edward nodded gratefully. ‘I’ll ring him as soon as I’ve decided what we say about this.’
‘And a Mr Connelly from the Evening Post.’
Edward pulled himself together. ‘Right. I’ll get back to him after I’ve eaten.’
The food made him feel better. Edward drank his tea and pushed the plate and cup aside. ‘I’d better go and sort things out,’ he said.
Amy lifted the plate and nodded.
The sitting room was pristine again, the way Edward liked it. Amy had picked some roses and it was permeated with their light perfume. The order, the calm, the cleanliness of it all was confounded by the memory of what had happened.
It made Edward long for it to be yesterday again. Yesterday, when life was sweet. He replayed the previous evening in his head, but this time Jonathan was with them, chatting to people, being pleasant, helpful. He saw himself, putting an affectionate arm about his son’s shoulders, introducing him to people.
In the hospital corridor, waiting for them to finish emptying his son’s stomach, Edward had felt furious. What was Jonathan thinking about? It was so messy and unnecessary.
Suicide.
The doctor had questioned him closely. This young man, questioning him. What had Jonathan taken? Had he been drinking? Did he take drugs? How long ago had it happened? Was he depressed about something?
Edward sank into the couch.
Stupid questions. Questions that had nothing to do with their lives. My son is a stranger, Edward suddenly thought, an aggressive, irritating messy stranger, who simply inhabits an upstairs room in my house. If he was a lodger I would have thrown him out.