by Paul Read
Angela handed both men a glass of wine (Patrick was certain it wasn’t from the bottle he’d brought) and relieved her husband of his duties so he could show Patrick round the house, which he did rapidly and inartistically, lingering on aspects he didn’t approve of rather than the features he did. Given the chance, it seemed Christophe would have lived somewhere else, and he talked of the ‘great summer redecoration’ as though it were Stalin’s infamous ‘Purge’. They paused by the large window on the turn of the stairs and looked out over the vast, perfectly manicured garden, flower beds hoed at deep right-angles beside an obese summer house.
‘The price of real estate round here is extortionate,’ Christophe announced. ‘Even the snow can’t afford to settle.’
The look Christophe gave him made Patrick suspect he’d just cracked a joke. ‘Your gigs must’ve been something to behold, Chris.’ He tried to keep the envy from his voice; this was almost definitely the largest house he’d ever stepped foot in that wasn’t owned by the National Trust.
‘We were burgled last year,’ Christophe said, following Patrick’s stunned gaze. ‘My fault – I keep leaving our side gate unlocked. We were lucky though. The police reckon they were disturbed halfway through, by the barking of next door’s Retriever. We didn’t lose as much as we might’ve and found quite a lot of our stuff stored in that summer house. For whatever reason, they never came back to collect the Basquiat.’
They ate at the dining table, Tristan holding everyone’s attention hostage from his high chair. Naturally, Angela probed Patrick about his ‘career’. Naturally, Patrick’s heart sank. He dutifully answered her questions anyway, only for her to look through him with the bored gaze of a general practitioner, until he found the opportunity to ask what she did for a living and she replied, quite unapologetically, ‘Nothing. My money comes from daddy.’ Patrick imagined that the subject of Tristan’s impending schooling was an ongoing and lively debate inside the DuPont mansionhold.
When the kid started to get bored, Angela carried him off to bed. Outside, the ghostly wattage of a full moon bleached the clouds as the two men edged towards drunkenness. Patrick knew, very soon, he would have to hit his friend with his confession.
‘Jenna Moris’s mother?’ Disbelief swelled Christophe’s features, making him look vaguely, joyfully, constipated. ‘I thought it must’ve been a woman. You were… preoccupied the last few days of term. Though I’m not sure if seeing the parent of one of your students is the wisest move you’ve ever made. It could be… tricky, no?’
‘Probably. Definitely. Jenna knows.’
‘Shit.’
The politics of courtship still perplexed Patrick. He’d been avoiding Sarah’s calls since the Lionswater encounter – in fact, he’d been avoiding pretty much all calls – but there was no denying that, when he thought of Sarah, Patrick felt something he hadn’t experienced for a long time: a tugging equidistant between his head and loins. But he also sensed she was trouble. And he was in more than enough of that already.
Patrick settled back into the chair and gulped at his wine. ‘You know she lives in Union City.’
‘Snob.’
‘Those videos we saw…? I had no idea the place was as rough as it is. I kind of wish there was something I could do.’
Christophe shrugged. ‘You’re already doing it. In loco parentis and all that.’
‘I’m an Art teacher, not a social worker. There were kids openly brandishing weapons, Chris.’
A security light flashed on above Christophe’s patio, wiping away their reflections and revealing the suburbanite infinity of his garden. A startled cat fizzed away into the night.
Patrick continued. ‘They act like they rule that estate, those kids. There were people hiding behind their curtains. It actually made me feel quite ill to watch.’
‘It’s hardly the October Revolution. Probably it’s simple boredom. For most children, anyone over a certain age is the enemy. Anyone of an alternative class. You’ve Oliver Cromwell to thank for that, of course.’
‘You’ve changed your tune, Chris. You were the one who pointed the videos out to me. Why are you suddenly so dismissive?’
‘You know how society works, yeah? A small, powerful group controlling a majority of law-abiding citizens? It’s as true in London sink estates as it is in Westminster.’ Christophe slumped back in his chair, drunkenness bestowing him a sympathetic pomposity. ‘Have you raised your fears with your new lady friend?’
‘She’s not my lady friend… She’s… She mentioned something about a curfew, and I’m sure she’s not the only one cowering from the gangs. Last week, I walked past a corner shop, completely razed.’
‘The last couple of governments have fucked Union City up, amongst… other socioeconomic factors.’ The Frenchman rose slightly in his chair, the confident way he poured himself another glass of wine suggesting he believed he’d solved most, if not all, of life’s problems. ‘I think there’s a bigger evil at work. The majority of criminal activity is financially driven. This corner shop. It was the one on Albert Road, was it not? More wine?’
‘Please. You know the shop?’
‘No. But I read about the incident. The shop was “razed”, as you say, because it was selling under the counter, impinging upon a local dealer’s ground. Drugs are a lucrative business.’ He scowled at the empty wine bottle he was holding.
‘You think this gang war is centred around the sale of drugs?’
‘Almost definitely.’ Christophe looked at his watch, clicked his tongue, then obviously decided he was drunk enough to relent against his better judgement. He held his hands up in front of him. ‘For fifteen years I’ve had rheumatoid arthritis in these damn fingers. At about midday, every day, they start to ache. Three times as bad in weather like this. I’ve tried everything the doctor’s given me: all useless. Cannabis is the only thing that works, believe me, and for some time I’ve been buying my relief from someone in Union City. Where would the middle classes be without these guys from the estates?’ he chuckled. ‘I don’t go there myself to pick up the stuff – a kind of sub-dealer does – but this guy I get my gear from gets it from someone who gets it from Sean Keane. You won’t remember him. He left, or rather was expelled from, Highfields before you joined. He’s Matthew’s older brother and lives, I think, quite close to your new woman’s place. I mean, Sean’s a sub-dealer too. They all are. Somewhere, some kid actually grows this shit in his bedroom but… who knows. I’m anonymous in all of this. Or so I like to think. But not innocent exactly; I know the only way to command a monopoly on illegal goods is through violence. Anyway, this goes no further than ourselves?’
Little wonder, Patrick thought, that Christophe was reluctant to chase Matthew and his dodgy phone content down Morality Street. ‘Of course.’
‘I shouldn’t have involved you by showing you those videos. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ Christophe opened a drawer in a desk beside him and took out a small tin. As though to cap off his story, he rolled a large rizla full of grass and tobacco then sparked it with a match, curling out silver tendrils of smoke. ‘Just because I’m the last link in the chain doesn’t mean I can’t be shocked by teenage gangsterism.’ He took three long, deep lungfuls then passed it over to an embarrassed Patrick.
It was rich, almost berry-sweet, with a metallic aftertaste, and the first pull had no effect upon him. He risked another, and immediately the light-headedness took hold.
‘Actually, I am involved,’ he told Christophe.
Christophe didn’t seem to take the conversational hint, merely shook his deadpan expression from side to side and gazed out the window. ‘You might be able to help those kids,’ Christophe stated. ‘But not as a teacher. We both know that. As red tape multiplies, discipline reduces. It’s not fucking rocket science. What I want to know is, when do teachers get a chance, once all the acronyms have been cross-checked, to edify the kids with information? To teach?’
It was all Patrick could do t
o nod his head. While Christophe climbed atop his soapbox, Patrick choked back a growing desire to lie on the floor and go to sleep. Christophe seemed larger than usual, fearlessly animalistic, and Patrick was unclear what point the Frenchman was making, or whether he himself might have forgotten.
‘Kids aren’t scared of the consequences of their actions, because there aren’t any. There’s an impotence instilled into schools by a single generation of children who’ve been brought up by children, who believe they’re beyond reproach. Their statements for “behavioural issues” are essentially the sympathies of the medical profession.’
For variety, Patrick shook his head. The carpet still looked mightily inviting.
‘I often wonder what older teachers, if they haven’t already left education, make of this constant target-setting, this reduction of the teaching of young minds to a business model? I was never hit by a teacher during my schooldays, and yet I remember corporal punishment being a genuine deterrent. It served as a clear barometer of ‘crossing the line’. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad the days of institutionalised child abuse are over, but there have been times, I’ll admit, as I’ve stood at my door refusing to let my Nines out until they’ve picked up every pencil I’ve watched fly across the room, when I’ve considered how much easier things would be if I were permitted the odd clip round the ear, as opposed to an hour’s detention followed by an “incident report” followed by a “strategy meeting” followed by a… What’s funny?’
Patrick’s laugh had started quietly before building into a thunderous guffaw he was powerless to stop. Through hiccoughs of stoned laughter, Patrick felt his confidence growing, the truth unshackling. Here was a man who would understand. Here was a man who could hear his confession.
‘I punched Denis,’ he announced, more with relief than regret.
He’d known it was a stupid thing to say, even before he’d said it.
‘You what?’
‘Two days before the end of term. I punched Denis. I lost it…’
‘Jesus, Patrick.’
The Art teacher described the build-up to the incident as it happened, his head spinning with searing paranoia, his friend’s look of judgement. Christophe listened with a mixture of horror and embarrassment, barely making eye contact throughout.
At the part in the story where Denis hit the ground, Christophe asked, ‘And… Is he okay?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘I didn’t wait around to find out. There were more of them than me.’
‘They just let you walk off?’
‘I think they were as surprised as I was. A couple of them ran over to Denis. But the others simply watched me walk away. Then I started running. I didn’t stop. They could have killed me, I suppose, but they didn’t seem to know what to do once Denis was down, almost as though their orders ought to have come from him. Fucking hell, Christophe, I can’t tell you what a weight off my mind this is, being able to talk to someone about it. I’ve been living a nightmare for the last week. Too scared to answer the door, to pick up the phone to strange numbers. They could be harmless calls but… I don’t know what came over me. I just felt so… threatened. I’ve done nothing but think about it since. Why didn’t they come after me? I kind of think I know the answer, and I don’t like it. They know who I am, of course they do. Or at least Denis does.’
‘But what if Denis is… not alright?’
‘We’d have heard. Wouldn’t we?’
They both searched the empty spaces behind the other, avoiding eye contact. The snow had closed the school prematurely, mercifully, on Thursday morning. And Denis had a history of truanting those last few days of term. They wouldn’t have heard anything either way.
‘You won’t tell anyone?’ Patrick asked.
‘You put me in a very difficult position.’
‘Please, Christophe.’
‘As one professional to another…’
Patrick tried another approach. ‘You’re stoned. Maybe you misheard.’ He hadn’t meant that to sound like blackmail, but Christophe’s own admission was now well and truly cancelled out. ‘It’s been days already. And who’s more likely to be believed? Me or him?’ He was convincing nobody now the shaking of his hands had returned, the distant whinnying in his ears.
‘You have to teach that boy for another six months. There’s a Year Eleven parents’ evening in the first week back…’
Patrick hauled himself from the chair and, before he knew it, was walking with wavering gait from the room, maybe even from their friendship. ‘I can’t see me staying in teaching a whole lot longer.’
Christophe kept pace behind him. ‘If that’s how you want it, I’ll try and forget this conversation ever happened. I can keep a secret.’
Patrick turned before he reached the front door. Christophe was visibly sweating.
‘Thanks for dinner.’
‘Watch yourself,’ Christophe said as Patrick headed into the cold, and his words couldn’t have been imbued with a more menacing caution if he’d tried.
‘Yeah.’ Patrick looked around him as the darkness circled. Even wealthy suburbia had its shadows.
‘Oh, and Merry Christmas.’
Again, that mysterious mobile number vibrating the phone in his pocket. He imagined the voice on the other end. The twisted half-threat, muffled by a bandana. The insinuations of a bloody revenge. He’d already purchased new locks for his front door and windows.
Patrick entered his street, looked up its entire length then crossed into the light. The silvery shadows rustled. The wind called his surname. A fear as tangible as the one he felt as a boy, petrified of the dark behind the curtains, under his bed, inside his toybox, was reborn. Everywhere the blackness touched, the familiar became terrifying. The security of his own flat was no security at all and he was tempted to turn back, but there was no way to shake off the demons made manifest by children. By children.
He slowed as he approached, his heart pitching into his throat. There was definitely a dark figure outside the main door, hunched on the low wall beneath the entry phone. Patrick felt the panic constrict and crawl at the skin of his testicles. It was, by now, a familiar sensation.
He had stopped walking, but hadn’t remembered doing so. The stranger raised its head and long hair fell past its shoulder.
The relief coursed through him and he walked on as the shadowed figure locked its pose in his direction, as though in recognition. So, Sarah, unable to get hold of him, had found out where he lived. He had a stalker after all.
He stepped through the gate into the front garden, trying to clear his head of the lingering remnants of fear, to act surprised but unfazed, to string a sentence together.
‘Daddy!’ a little voice cried.
The figure sat on what was now unmistakably a large rucksack, their hands folded around the shoulders of a beaming child who suddenly broke forward and bear-hugged Patrick’s legs.
‘And where the hell have you been?’ his wife asked, without a trace of humour.
TWO
Ana walked through his door as though taking ownership of the flat.
‘This place is a tip,’ she declared.
‘My wife left me,’ Patrick said, following her in.
It had been meant as a joke, sort of, but right now it didn’t feel as though they’d split. It wasn’t exactly crystal clear what their relationship was, and probably these things never were, but she didn’t laugh anyway.
Danny was hyperactive from the flight and the rediscovery of his toys and father. A little blonde ball of energy, he bounced, grinning, round the flat as Patrick watched, dumbstruck with love.
It was true that paternity suited Patrick on occasion. Right now, those miniature limbs, those delicate features, he would protect to the grave. In a few days, perhaps, the old worries might ebb back – the lack of freedom; the overwhelming responsibility; theories of hereditary insecurity – but watching Danny now, he couldn’t believe he coul
d ever feel suffocated by the family set-up ever again. This was too precious.
‘Are you pleased to see Daddy?’ Ana asked, almost grudgingly.
Danny could only nod. He knew words were useless, cheapening things. Then he threw his arms around his father’s legs again.
‘Drink?’ Patrick asked.
‘Ribena!’ Danny shouted.
Patrick went to his cupboard and scratched his cheek, making a big show of trying to remember his son’s favourite drink, then, with a playful wink, pulled out a bottle. He hoped Ana would be touched by this cache of Ribena, but she didn’t seem to read too much into it. It was something that would have annoyed him before. She never read anything into anything.
‘Don’t you think he’s hyper enough?’ she asked.
He took a beer from the fridge, tossed one to Ana. ‘So why didn’t you let me know you were coming over?’ He tried hard to keep all irritation out of his voice.
‘Why don’t you answer your phone?’ She was looking round the flat, perhaps for signs of other women, or even for signs of herself; old belongings, reminders of who she was or had once been to him.
‘We spoke the other day. You never mentioned you were coming.’
She just shrugged and sat herself down on the sofa, watched Danny dancing at his father’s ankles. Her mysteriousness was undoubtedly a deliberate ploy to reaffirm that he had no control over them.
‘I spoke to your mother,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘She’s concerned.’
‘It’s none of her business.’
‘I agree. But she’s still easier to speak to than you.’
Sensing an argument, Danny stopped jumping up and down.
Patrick forced a smile. ‘Did my mother pay for your flights?’
Ana inspected the bookshelves. Mrs Owen had been flashing plenty of her late husband’s money around lately, and would no doubt be expecting a visit from her grandchild at the very least.
Patrick tried to bury his irritation. ‘Where are you staying? You’re not at my mother’s are you?’