by Simon Bourke
As Malcolm splashed urine against the wall, he went over things in his head. It wasn’t that bad, just a simple misunderstanding. These things happened in office environments. Hadn’t Barry from sales been caught having a fumble with one of the temps at last year’s Christmas party? He himself was married, though, and he was the boss; he’d also taken advantage of a vulnerable young woman. That wasn’t the same as a drunken tryst at a work do, not the same at all. He decided that he’d emerge from his office sometime after lunch and assess the mood among the staff. If there were little or no reaction to his resurfacing, then everything would probably be okay. She’d have decided to keep quiet. Their friendship was almost certainly over, and it would be awkward between them from now on; but when her contract was up in a year’s time, they could let her go. She’d be glad to leave and he’d ensure she got a glowing reference. That would be the least he could do.
He zipped up, washed his hands and looked at himself in the mirror; he was fine, everything was going to be fine. He returned to the office feeling refreshed, almost invigorated. Striding through the door, he glanced cursorily towards the cubbyhole where the accountants worked; there wouldn’t be anyone there now, it was lunchtime. Force of habit made him look, anyway. There was someone there, and she was staring right at him. Katie had stayed behind to work on an important account. She met his gaze without flinching; she’d been waiting for him to return. What he saw in her eyes made his blood run cold. It was a look of pure hatred, utter malevolence. Things were far from fine, that was clear. He rushed back to the sanctuary of his office, locking the door behind him. This time he didn’t even bother refilling his glass but drank straight from the bottle.
6
A week had passed, during which he’d spent less and less time in the office. He had gone to work the following morning determined to put the whole thing behind him; it was a simple misunderstanding, and if she complained about him that would be his response. But he found the tension unbearable. Every time he saw her talking to someone he wondered if she was telling them about the incident. It was agonising waiting for the guillotine to drop, for his dirty secret to be revealed. He did everything he could to avoid her, but that set the rumour mill into action. The gossips who had once speculated about the nature of their relationship now wondered why the two hardly ever spoke.
“Had a falling out, have yer?” asked one, nodding in Katie’s direction.
“No, no, nothing like that. Just very busy at the moment, that’s all.”
But they weren’t buying it; they knew something was up. This added to his anxiety. It was surely only a matter of time before someone figured out what had happened, that the lecherous old boss had made a pass at the naive young worker and been told where to go. How pathetic. What must his wife think? Does she know? Someone should tell her. Scenarios spun around his head, each more disastrous than the last: court cases, divorce papers, visitation rights, a broken man living in a hovel – all because he couldn’t control his urges.
He spent two days hiding in his office until the weekend came around. It offered him a brief respite. Instead of using it as an opportunity to regroup, to figure out what to do next, however, Malcolm spent it in a drunken stupor. He told Margaret he was working, that they were trying to get a new client and he needed to be at the office all day. Instead he went to a bar; a dark, dingy little place which opened early and asked no questions. He sat there, steadily drinking, plunging further into despair. There was no way out of this. Monday loomed large. Katie would have mulled things over, confided in a friend; maybe even taken legal advice. His life was over; she would see to that.
Somehow he dragged himself in on Monday morning, fully expecting to see the police waiting for him outside the front entrance; but it was business as usual. Katie was in her usual spot, head bowed, industrious as ever. And the rest of the office was carrying on as normal. He went to his office, palpitating, desperate for a drink. The cabinet had been fully replenished by this point. He poured himself a large one and sat there, listening. Try as he might, he couldn’t decipher the garbled chatter made by forty-odd people in a cramped environment. They might have been talking about him, but he had no way of knowing.
In the afternoon, he told Dennis he wasn’t feeling well and left, driving straight to the pub. The following day he was outside that same pub at nine a.m., waiting for the doors to open. Wednesday was the same. He rang Dennis. Must be a bug or something; I should be back in tomorrow. But he wasn’t back in tomorrow, or the next day. He stayed in his new drinking den which opened early and didn’t ask questions. He didn’t know its name; it probably didn’t have one. And he stayed there all day, every day until today. At a quarter to five, after another hard day’s graft, he downed his last drink, thanked the barman and left. He’d had enough; it was time to go home.
He opened the door and stepped outside, the brightness of the early evening sun momentarily blinding him. It wasn’t safe out here, not for a guy like him. He got in his car. Was he okay to drive? It didn’t matter. His thoughts turned to home and what he could expect when he got there. They’d be pleased to see him, they always were. He hadn’t been home this early all week; usually arriving back at nine or ten o’clock and going straight to bed, citing tiredness and the need for an early night. He’d been avoiding them, of course, afraid they’d see the guilt on his face. He couldn’t bear to look at them; those wonderful children, and his wife, who had done so much for him. They didn’t need someone like him in their lives; a pitiful, pathetic drunk who preyed on the weak and then hid from his problems. He would sell his half of the business to Dennis and disappear, send them the money from the safety of a far-flung watering hole somewhere in eastern Europe. Margaret was still young and attractive, she’d find someone else, and the kids were getting to the age where they’d begin to grow curious about their biological parents. He’d done his job with them. They could move on; no harm done. He’d sit on his stool in a strange little bar in Moldova or Latvia, one of those ex-Soviet states, and he’d drink until he could drink no more, and eventually the pain would cease. Eventually it would all be over.
Eastern Europe would have to wait, however. Right now he was tired, dog-tired. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept, or eaten for that matter. If he hurried, he could get home in time for tea; a nice family meal with his loved ones, the last supper. He pulled out of the car park and made for home. He was drunk and most certainly over the limit, but it wasn’t far. And anyway he’d done this loads of times. If the police pulled him over, then so what? He had nothing more to lose. But he drove carefully, no one pulled him over and he made it home unscathed. He eased into the driveway, killed the engine and waited a moment. Any second now they’d be out to greet him: Hi, honey, I’m home! Drunk? Don’t be silly, a couple of pints after work, that’s all. He studied his features in the rear-view mirror: unshaven, bloodshot eyes, unkempt hair – not bad. The smell of his wife’s cooking wafted out from the house. Food, a proper dinner; God, that sounded like the greatest thing on earth. He couldn’t remember ever being so hungry. Malcolm stepped out of the car and walked up the drive. No one had come out to greet him. He turned his key in the door, expecting a torrent of abuse, certain that they’d found out. Peeking into the living-room, his worst fears were confirmed: Jonathan stared back at him with a face like thunder. Panic set in; they knew. Katie had called here and told Jonathan, and now they were going to blackmail him in return for their silence. Whatever it takes, he told himself, I’m willing to do it.
“Hi, Jon,” he said hesitantly.
His son continued to glare at him. Had she really called here?
He made his way into the kitchen, genuinely fearful now. But he was greeted warmly by his wife, his beautiful, smiling, faithful wife.
“Malcolm! You should have said you’d be home early. I’d have put more chips on!”
She stood before him, studying him. This was the acid test.
“Yeah, we’re up the walls. I thought I’d get home early for a change.”
She nodded fervently. “And rightly so. As soon as you’ve finished this it’s upstairs for a bath, and then an early night. Okay?”
He nodded in agreement and took a chair at the table. “That’s a good idea, Marge. I think I will.”
“Before you do,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, “I think you should apologise to that lad in there.”
Malcolm had no idea what she was talking about, but he knew he was supposed to know so he played along as best as he could.
“I’ll do it now,” he said, leaving her to set the table.
“All right, mate?” he said hopefully, as he walked into the living-room.
Jonathan was thrown across the sofa, the remote control in his hand, absent-mindedly hopping from one channel to the next.
“Anything good on?”
No response. He looked at his son. Did he really know about Katie? He couldn’t have. No one knew. It had to be something else. Had he done something stupid while he was drunk and completely forgotten about it? He didn’t think so; he did his best to avoid the children when he’d been drinking. He looked around the room for inspiration, a sign from God, but everything seemed to be in place. He’d clearly fucked up, that was bad enough, but not remembering how he’d fucked up was far worse. His eyes rested on the glass display case which housed his son’s ever expanding collection of medals and trophies, a source of so much pride for both mother and father. Something was off. He could list the contents of that cabinet in his sleep, had spent hours gazing in awe at all the awards. Through his drunken haze he scrutinised the various gold, silver and bronze cups, prizes and medals. Right there, in the middle of the centre shelf, was a newcomer. He squinted to see. It was for first place, and by the looks of things from an important race. Malcolm racked his brain. What was the date? Fuck. Never mind the date, what day was it? All concept of time had disappeared since he’d opened that bottle of ouzo. His world had stood still, but everyone else’s had continued as normal. From somewhere in the dusty corners of his mind, it finally came to him: A big race, Jonathan’s big day. But that had been ages ago, and he’d been there in the stands, cheering his boy on. Hadn’t he? He was sure he had. He had been there, at the county finals. Jonathan had won and qualified for the regionals, which had been – today. His big day.
He cleared his throat. “Listen, Jon, I tried to make it today, but we’ve been up the walls recently.”
“You didn’t even ring to see how I’d got on.”
“I know, I know. I meant to, but by the time I got the chance it was too late. Anyway, I thought it’d be better to have you tell me in the flesh.”
Malcolm had only recently realised how creative a liar he was.
His son looked at him, measuring him up. Malcolm’s mouth went dry. A double brandy would have gone down well right now.
“You should have been there, Dad.”
Malcolm breathed deeply. He’d passed. This was easy.
“I know, son, I know. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
“How, Dad?”
He hadn’t thought this far ahead. He hesitated, reached for his wallet; money was always a good option in such circumstances, but a quick glance at the boy told him that forgiveness couldn’t be bought, not this time. He would have to draw on more of his newly-discovered creativity.
“You tell me, son.”
“A couple of days away in a hotel, for the finals, just like we discussed.”
The finals. Where did it all end?
“It’s in August, so me and Sophie will both be off school. We could head down on the Friday morning, check into the hotel, see the sights, go shopping – whatever we want, really.”
Which finals were these? What came after regional, national? The national finals; was his boy on the brink of becoming the best 800-metre runner in the country? He had no idea.
“Your tea’s ready, boys!” Margaret shouted from the kitchen.
Malcolm got up, expecting his son to do the same, but Jonathan didn’t budge. He stayed where he was, staring intently at his father like a guard dog waiting for the postman to come through the gate.
“Let’s discuss it over tea, will we, son?”
*
By the time he’d filled his belly and crawled up to bed, Malcolm had agreed to it all. They’d be staying in a hotel called the ‘Mercurial’ which, he was reliably informed, was just a twenty-minute drive from the race venue. They’d travel down on the Friday and check in around noon, then the female contingent would head to Oxford Street for some shopping while father and son toured the museums in the centre of London. Then on finals day – and yes they were the nationals – they’d all head to the track to cheer on their boy. Afterwards, win or lose, it was off to a posh restaurant for a slap-up meal (Margaret’s words, not his) and maybe a show or a movie to wrap up the evening. Sunday offered no respite, a trip to the Westfield shopping centre, before the long drive home – they’d probably play eye-spy on the way.
Ordinarily he would have been counting down the days in anticipation, but not now, not with all this hanging over him. He could just about stomach the thought of betraying his wife. She’d be devastated, hurt and upset beyond all reason, but she’d get over it; she was resilient. The kids, though. If they saw him for what he was, if they saw the real him, it would crush him. A better man would have confessed everything by now, thrown himself at their mercy and accepted his punishment. But that wasn’t him, he had chosen to hide under a rock and hope it would all go away. It was still there though, in the office, staring at him every day. Katie knew what he was, and every time he looked at her he saw himself reflected in her eyes: a pitiful, wretched creature. She had his number. She knew exactly what he was, and it was only a matter of time before everyone else did too.
7
Jonathan felt guilty even thinking about it. He knew it was natural to wonder, but even so it felt like a betrayal. They’d taken him in and given him a life most kids could only dream of, and here he was, throwing it all back at them. Was this to be their reward? Feed him, clothe him, look after him for fifteen years and then be dispensed with like an old rag? It wasn’t like that, though. They were his parents, and they would always be his parents. But the fact remained that someone else had brought him into this world. Somewhere out there were two people, a man and a woman, who had come together and created him. They may not have wanted to do so but they had, and here he was, in the flesh, living proof of their coupling. Did they think about him? Did they regret giving him away? He remembered that when he was younger he’d asked his mother those very same questions, and to her credit, his mum had answered them as well as she could. He’d been just a kid then, unable to fully grasp the situation. He vaguely recalled promising his mum that he’d never, ever leave her and that she’d always be his mum, no matter what. He still believed that, he still loved her with all his heart, but he wanted to know. He wanted to know where he came from. Although his parents had always been open and had told him that when the time came they would assist him in his search, he wanted to do this by himself. He knew it would hurt them. They’d try to brush it off, tell him how happy they were, but deep down it would kill them. They’d wonder what they’d done wrong and why he no longer trusted them. It wasn’t like that, though; they’d done nothing wrong. He just needed to do this by himself.
Therein lay the problem; he had no idea where to start. He was just a kid; you needed an adult for something like this. He wasn’t even sure if he was allowed to look for them; didn’t you have to be eighteen? You had to be eighteen for almost everything else, so it made sense that you’d have to be eighteen for this too. He considered going to his aunt Ellie and asking her about it. She was his favourite aunt and he knew he could rely on her to k
eep quiet. It would be unfair to weigh her down with such a burden, though. No, this would have to be done completely and entirely on his own.
One day when he was home alone, he decided to take the first step. He fished out the Yellow Pages and began leafing through the book. He didn’t really know what he was looking for, but he decided he’d search under A for Adoption and see where it took him. There was something called ‘Adoption Search Reunion’. That would do. Without thinking he dialled the number, but as soon as he heard a voice at the other end he hung up. He rang twice more, but on each occasion he put down the receiver when his call had been answered. What was he supposed to say? Hello, my name is Jonathan. Can you find my real mother, please? They’d probably ask him where his mum and dad were and tell him not to call again until he had their consent. At the very least they’d need official documentation and the like, and he had no idea where any of that stuff was. There was no point in him phoning anyone; it would just lead to questions that he couldn’t answer.
What he needed was information, pamphlets and the like. He’d read up on it, find out what he could and couldn’t do and take it from there. But where would he get pamphlets? The library? He checked his watch; it was after four now. By the time he got there, it would be almost closing time and it’d be really busy now, anyway. He’d be better off going in the morning, early, when they’d just opened. He could casually browse the bulletin board, where they kept the pamphlets, and if anyone asked what he was doing he could say he was looking for part-time work. They put jobs on that bulletin board; he’d seen them.