by Paul Read
Patrick, averting his head from Matthew’s hiss of cannabis smoke, became aware of ten, eleven, twelve hooded shadows hovering at the corner of the block and then automatically searched above for evidence of CCTV. Predictably, he found none.
‘I wasn’t aware I was getting in anyone’s way. Who am I supposed to “leave alone” exactly?’
‘Stay out of my way. Stay out of the Souljas’ way. And stay out of Jenna’s way.’
Mention of Sarah’s daughter winded Patrick. She was above such petty rivalries, surely?
She was a killer.
Matthew flicked his joint to the floor and scraped it to ribbons underfoot. Under the green light of the fire exit, Patrick could make out spots of brown paint upon his shoes. Warning bells rang in Patrick’s head.
If there was one thing Patrick was an expert on, it was colour mixing; what looked like brown paint under green light wasn’t brown at all. It was red.
‘You…?’
Matthew followed Patrick’s gaze down, shrugged. ‘You can’t prove nothing.’
Patrick thought better of correcting him on his grammar. Matthew may have had a tough older brother and an attitude copied from Denis, but his use of paedophile slurs only underscored his immaturity.
‘And the doll on my desk…? The writing on my door…? God, you’re pathetic. What was the point of that sick picture just now?’ Patrick was struggling to keep his anger in check.
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, innit.’ Something behind the cruel pair of dark eyes told him Matthew wasn’t really there. They weren’t having this conversation. ‘Stay out of our business, stop all this shit about standing up to gangs and drugs and whatever, yeah?’
‘Or what?’
‘We don’t want another front page, do we?’ the boy threatened. The gang on the corner stood their ground. London’s wind carried Siberia’s winter from the north, whistled it through the crumbling passageways and impenetrable shadows of the estate. ‘I know things about you.’
Patrick’s breath was a ripple of mist between them. ‘You don’t know anything about me.’
‘I know… what Jenna knows.’
The teacher’s blood ran cold.
‘I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.’
‘We don’t speak to the police, as a rule. We deal with things ourselves. But they’ve been sniffing round my family for days. Maybe they’ll leave us alone once they hear about your own reasons for popping D-Man. What do you think? Won’t look too good, will it?’ Despite the street patois, his threats were clear.
‘I’ll think about it.’ It was an adult’s standard postponement of a child’s request, but Matthew had proved himself, against Patrick’s expectations, to be somewhat more calculating than most children. He possessed a hand that could indict his elder of murder.
‘I mean it,’ Matthew pressed. ‘Leave us alone.’
‘Again the “us”? Who exactly are you speaking on behalf of?’
Matthew smirked. ‘I’m speaking on behalf of my boys.’
And with that, Matthew walked back towards them.
Thirty metres on, Patrick risked a look over his shoulder and was relieved to find, once again, that it was only his own feet which echoed through the darkness.
My boys, Matthew had said. But Patrick was in little doubt his gang included girls too.
The phone rang just as he was getting ready for bed.
‘Very handsome,’ Sarah breathed into his ear.
‘What?’
‘I just caught your press conference on TV. You see it?’
‘Of course not. Did they include…’
‘You bet they did.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘Patrick, I’m worried about her. Is this the sort of thing that’s likely to send a child off the rails?’ The abrupt change of subject told him they’d already arrived at the meat of the conversation, and that her announcement that he’d been labelled a child molester on national television was merely an opener.
‘Daughters aren’t really my field of expertise, Sarah. What were you two arguing about in the playground, anyway?’
She emitted a dismissive grunt, but he couldn’t decipher the depth of her subsequent silence; they hadn’t known each other long enough for such clairvoyance. It was the second time she’d evaded that question.
‘Perhaps it’s best to give her some space,’ he suggested, ‘but let her know you’re there for her if she needs you. Is… what’s-his-name still there?’
‘Mike?’
‘Yeah. I guess she’s finding him a reassuring figure…’
‘He left. I didn’t find him a particularly “reassuring figure”.’
‘Right. Good. I must admit I didn’t entirely warm to him.’
‘Maybe you should stop picking fights in playgrounds.’
Patrick laughed a cold laugh. ‘Actually, would it be possible to… speak to Jenna?’ He knew it was risky but he had to know what Matthew knew, whether Jenna had gone back on her word. What had Matthew said? I know what Jenna knows. ‘I wanted to apologise to her.’
‘She’s at her father’s. Why do you think I’m risking calling you?’
They were still running round behind Jenna’s back. Her emotions were conflicted, he knew that, but she still contacted him, came to visit. Was it only out of fear? Were they bonded purely by their terrible situation, or was there something more?
‘I had a nice chat with your wife earlier.’
‘Oh shit.’
‘No, seriously. She’s nice.’
‘She is?’ He recalled Ana’s text message. The respect wasn’t mutual.
‘And your son’s adorable. You’re very lucky. And…’
A scream almost forced Patrick to drop the phone in alarm.
‘What? What?’
She whispered. ‘Outside. I saw…’
‘What is it? Sarah?’
‘At the window. I thought… I’ll be back. Hold on.’
Patrick pressed his ear to the phone, imagined he could hear her walk across the carpet, her hesitation before she opened the front door. The handle would be cold and damp to the touch, transferring the chill of the outdoors. Maybe she was picking out an improvised weapon from beneath the coat rack as she swung open the door, wielding the shaking umbrella like a sword. The first thing she’d see would be her own shadow on the cracked balcony walkway, accompanied by a slide of footwear on broken tile. Across the street, the ruin of Matthew’s brother’s home. A few insects fluttering around streetlights. And then…
‘You still there?’ Her voice was loud, unsure.
Patrick spluttered in relief. ‘Did you see anything? What was it?’
‘Can I come over?’ she asked. ‘Right away?’
He buzzed her into the apartment building and she arrived at his door looking cold and miserable. There was a hunted, startled look about her and several times, even once indoors, she cast a look over her shoulder.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I might’ve been followed.’
He turned off the light and strode to the curtains, though saw very little except the glow of houses opposite. There was a shadow moving near the end of his street, but it turned out to be the old guy with the dodgy leg from number eleven putting out his recycling.
‘There’s no one there.’
She threw her arms around him, and he could feel her heart beating through their clothes.
‘You’re shivering with cold. Didn’t you bring a coat?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘I’m running you a bath.’ He went to the bathroom and twisted the hot water tap. When he returned she was at the window, biting her nails. ‘Anything?’
‘No.’
He had another look up and down the street. Nothing.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘This is very kind of you.’
‘There are towels in the airing cupboard next to the bath. I’ll fix you something to eat.’
Obediently,
she started on her way to the bathroom. Then she stopped. ‘Your wife…’
‘What about her?’
‘She’s not staying with you?’
‘We’re separated. I told you.’
Sarah looked around her, as though confirming his assertions. ‘But, earlier, she seemed to be suggesting that…’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know. Like, maybe, you were back on.’
‘Was she now?’ Patrick tried hard to hide the emotion in his voice and hid it so well he had no idea what the emotion even was. It irritated him that his wife would dare to say such a thing, and yet… Those vows weren’t uttered out of tradition only. It was, after all, his wife’s job to frighten off other women.
‘But…’ she continued, ‘I’m the one who’s here, aren’t I?’ She splayed her hands to illustrate the fact. ‘I want you in my life, Patrick, but I’m worried you’ll find all this too much. I was determined never to see you again, after Jenna found out about us, but circumstances keep forcing us together, don’t they?’
‘How romantic, Ms Ellis.’
‘It’s all an accident, isn’t it? Attraction? I mean, no one falls for someone on purpose.’
‘I guess not.’
And with that she walked to the bathroom and he heard the gurgle of pipes as she turned off the hot tap and added cold. He imagined her slipping off clothes, checking the water’s temperature with a toe, and poured himself a large tumbler of whisky while listening out for the sound of the bathroom lock.
It never came.
He placed his liquor to one side, walked slowly to the hall. Standing with his nose to the bathroom door, caressing the wood grain with light fingertips, he listened for further proof that she summoned him.
The slapping of water on skin. The drip drip drip of a combination tap.
Though shielded from one another they were perhaps six feet apart, and the erotic power of the moment was more than Patrick could bear. He was simultaneously aroused and ashamed by his adulterous thoughts and yet, underneath it all, continued to psychoanalyse: of all the people in her life, it was him she’d run to in an emergency, his bath she soaped herself in. That had to mean something. His silent concentration, a desperate repression of breathing as he listened out for every ripple of water or splash or sigh, tightened further his grip on the door handle.
With a deep, slow breath, he pushed open the door.
Re: hello
Adam Roper 8:46
To: Patrick Owen
Hi Patrick,
Since you don’t appear to be on facebook (what is that? some kind of teacher anonymous thing?) i thought i’d see if i could smoke you out on this old email address. If i don’t get a reply then you’ve either abandoned this account (a possibility, but it’s too much of a pain in the arse to shift all those contacts away from hotmail surely?) or read this but decided not to reply anyway. After all, you’re a media darling now. I dropped my phucking Guinness when i saw you on TV last night man!
Are you still in touch with any of the uni lot? Pete? Paula? I still see a few of the old crowd but less and less it seems. Steve was always a fuckwit wasn’t he? Except with none of the wit. I saw Toni the other night and she asked if i’d heard from you and then, like ten minutes later, Kismet Kate came on the jukebox. Weird huh?
So me and Kris have been throwing a few ideas around and we’ve got some good stuff going. I’m not saying we’re thinking of reforming or anything but if you’ve got a loose end hows about my old axeman dropping this Northern twat a line? Maybe we could meet up for a drink in the big smoke.
Wish i had some news to impart but its same old same old. Jenny dumped me then Ishani dumped me then i dumped Ruby then Jasmine turned out to be a lesbian. I’m too lazy to make a proper decision about my career and still see work as something that funds the rest of my life. Know what i mean? Just can’t get my head around that whole living to work as opposed to working to live thing. Basically i’m back selling beds in Land of phucking Furniture and shagging my way through the workforce. No one knows about Jasmine yet but when she comes out i’m going to be a laughing stock man.
Hope this email finds you well.
All the best,
Adam
p.s I’m not going to pretend there isn’t an elephant in the room. There is. It’s painted like phucking Elmer, yeah? So i might as well address that elephant, for what its worth. I can’t hold grudges for this long. Its tiring. I genuinely hope you and Ana are doing well.
p.p.s What’s up with our Wiki page at the moment man? Have you seen it? Apparently we are all, and I quote, ‘assmunching Mr Owen’s peedo bumboys’????!
SIX
Patrick read the email again, looking for a nuance, subtext or piss-take that might have escaped him the first time.
Three times he tried to fashion a reply and three times he failed to affect the suitably convincing nonchalance he desired. For years he’d rehearsed their re-acquaintance speech but had been knocked off-key by Adam’s self-deprecations, plain admissions and the line ‘I’m not saying we’re thinking of reforming or anything.’
In the end, he wrote:
Hi Adam. Nice to hear from you. Yeah, I DO think you’re a northern twat. My number’s 07700 900556 and my career’s pretty shit too.
Patrick
It was flippant, curt, insincere. A worthy retort to seven years of cold shoulder. He pressed send and stared out the window for a long time, watching the rain lash the world beyond into an aquarium. It was imperative he keep a low profile now.
He determined to never again speak publicly about Denis Roberts or the fight against youth violence. He wouldn’t go to Denis’s funeral. He would abandon the assuagement, the public masking, of his culpability and just sit it out. Media appearances were fanning his own shame into a fire and, without recourse to actual proof of innocence, it was, as Sarah suggested, beginning to look suspicious. And it had rankled the Souljas.
‘Hi, hon,’ Sarah yawned, entering his front room. She was already dressed in her previous night’s clothes.
Patrick slapped his laptop closed. ‘How did you sleep?’ He rose.
‘Not brilliantly. What time have you got to go to work?’
‘School starts in half an hour.’ He had no intention of going.
‘You should’ve woken me.’
‘You looked so… tranquil. Stay here if you want. Or should you get back before Jenna pops home?’
‘I should, but not in order to keep up the pretence.’ She pressed against him, her breath hot. ‘I want it all out in the open. She needs to be taught a few things about honesty.’
‘I couldn’t agree more.’
‘I don’t want any more deceptions, Patrick. She’s not stupid. She’ll know what’s going on if I try sneaking around behind her back. And I don’t want to be sneaking around anymore.’ She turned, ruffled her hair into shape using her reflection on his gold disk.
Was this it? Was this the relationship that would finally overthrow his marriage for good? How would Sarah’s unfolding affections compare to Ana’s? Would she build up his self-esteem over the course of many years only to erode and eventually discard it into adulterous, tearful chaos? Or might he be the one who crushed her ego, supplanting the violent jolt of desire he once felt for her with a newer, less complicated model? Or, was this in fact the mythical, perfect partnership that would carry him with companionable tolerance and sock-darning dotage towards a twinned grave?
He didn’t want to even think about it.
‘I’ll call you a taxi.’
Patrick took her downstairs, shooting a surreptitious look up and down the empty street from under his umbrella. There was no way of knowing how their relationship would end up, and that was probably what made it so exciting last night. But there wasn’t the remotest chance Jenna would welcome her mother’s news, which was precisely the reason he’d rung the speaking clock and not the taxi company – to give Jenna those extra few minutes to make her way to school. Thi
ngs were getting more complicated by the hour and if there was anything he could do to keep Sarah and Jenna’s respective secrets from the other then he damn well would.
After waiting another ten minutes, Patrick phoned the cab company and remonstrated with the operative about the car being late. The gruff voice on the other end had no idea what Patrick was angry about but agreed to send a replacement.
When the car arrived, Sarah climbed in. ‘Thanks for last night,’ she said, blowing him a regal kiss. ‘You always seem to be around when I need you.’
As the car drove away, Patrick mimed the kiss landing a little too forcefully and grabbed his heart as if shot by a sniper. It was an act which inspired laughter from Sarah but bestowed him looks of pity from the neighbours marching past.
His mobile trilled and Adam’s name flashed on the screen. In all those years, he’d not deleted his bandmate’s number.
Patrick let it ring a few times before answering.
‘Patrick?’
‘Yes?’ He threw in a tactical but unconvincing, ‘Who’s this?’
‘Adam. How are you?’
‘I’m… That was quick. I only just emailed you.’
‘Been in the news I see?’ Adam’s voice was as sarcastic and carefree as it always had been, though Patrick thought most northerners sounded that way.
‘Yeah. Tiresome, isn’t it?’
‘Shitty about that boy. Did you know him well?’
Patrick was hardly surprised by this line of questioning. It was the easy way in for Adam after so long.
‘I can’t comment, I’m afraid. Sorry.’
‘Sure, sure. I can’t believe you’re a teacher, man. What do your kids make of you being an old rocker?’
‘Most don’t have a clue. Even fewer could care.’ He was willing to bet Adam was still living off the glories of rock stardom, milking every tale for more than it was worth down the local.
‘So yeah, like I say, we was listening back over some of our stuff and me and Kris have boshed up a few more tracks and it seemed, y’know, a good opportunity to hook up with the old gang.’ It wasn’t a question, but he let it hang like one.