The Haunting of Henry Twist

by Rebecca F. John

  One of Monty’s staff approaches. They hear the clip of his footsteps, parroted by the walls. They hear him tell Matilda that she mustn’t worry; he’ll have it cleaned up in no time; she should get back to her friends. And, unbelievably – though not one of them is her friend now, not really and truly, not the way Ruby once was – she does.

  She re-enters the room with a straight back and a new, hastily applied sweep of lipstick.

  ‘I should offer you my congratulations,’ she says, her eyes pressed against Sally’s for the first time. ‘My husband has always wanted to be a father. Evidently the only thing stopping him was me.’

  ‘Tild –’

  ‘No,’ she says, putting up her hand to stop him. He is silent, as she wants him to be. ‘It’s true. I mean it. Congratulations, Sally.’

  Shamelessly, Sally locks eyes with Matilda when she speaks. She has come here to make her claim, to secure her future with Grayson. She is not returning to school. She cannot. But Grayson will keep her through her pregnancy, she knows it. Matilda, in her stoicism, is almost giving him permission to do so. ‘Thank you, Matilda,’ she says, and the words are sincere. She means to be kind to the woman. After all, she has committed to the hand she now holds for life. She does not want unpleasantness.

  ‘Right. Of course,’ Matilda continues. ‘Now, we have a game to play, haven’t we Monty dear? That is what you want, isn’t it?’

  ‘Always,’ Monty replies, apparently not in the least bit discomfited. ‘If there was ever a generation who ought to do nothing but play games, it’s yours. You’ve seen enough seriousness to last a hundred lifetimes.’

  ‘Do you not imagine it a serious thing,’ Jack puts in, his lips small, his eyes narrowed, ‘to watch a marriage be broken?’

  ‘Oh, I do, I do,’ Monty answers. ‘But there is nothing so broken within a game, Jack Turner, that it cannot be mended once the game is over. That is the beauty of games. They are for the playing, not for the living.’

  Jack looks to Henry, apoplectic, his jaw tense as strung cable. He is seeking permission, Henry realises, to challenge Monty, to argue his point, to cause a fight. Surely he has kept his cool long enough. But Henry shakes his head. No. Because, he thinks he understands now what Montague is doing. He is trying to heal them. He’s going about it in an odd fashion, certainly; he’s getting a little too much enjoyment out of it. Doesn’t he look, in fact, like a man reclining post-coitally, spent, that subtle grin always flitting about his lips, that lethargic lift of his wrist as he brings his glass to his mouth and opens his throat to the liquid? His aim, though, is not to injure them, but to keep them. Or some of them, at least. Henry is sure of it. He’d seen the hurt Monty was made of that night in the garden, when he’d swung back and forth like a child in his swing and told Henry of his decades-old heartbreak. All he wants is not to be left alone. And that is not a wicked want. That is as natural as falling in love, or fearing the dark, or curling your back against the cold cut of the wind. That is as understandable as one man finding comfort with another.

  ‘Deal another hand,’ Henry says.

  ‘Really?’ It’s Jack. He hasn’t yet grasped the purpose of the game.

  ‘Really.’

  Henry nods at Monty. And Monty, smiling, nods back. ‘That’s my boy,’ he says, then he squares the pack and readies himself to begin again.

  They play until the midnight moon sprays silver beams across the floors, until that same moon dips down the clock towards three, until they are drunk and sober and drunk again, until they cannot tell any longer whether their tears consist of sorrow or amusement or some unnameable mixture of the two. They bump and bruise each other with ugly words. They punish each other with flushes and full houses. They talk their way back towards true, honest friendship.

  ‘Ooh, Jaa-ack,’ Monty sings. ‘Your turn to spit a truth.’

  Jack sits back in his chair and crosses his arms. He grins. ‘I’m always game, Monty.’

  ‘Indeed. But what to ask? What to ask? … All right, I know … What’s the cruellest thing you’ve ever done?’

  ‘The cruellest …’ Jack frowns as he thinks on the question. ‘The cruellest …’

  ‘You’re thinking a long time for a man with no memory,’ Matilda slurs.

  ‘A man with no memory ought to think longer than a man still in possession of one, don’t you think?’ Jack answers.

  Matilda laughs, slow and vicious. The drink has drowned all her good intent. She will not manage this gracefully now. ‘Well, I don’t know. What exactly is it you’re thinking on, if there’s nothing there?’ She taps at her temple.

  ‘An answer to the question.’

  ‘Ha! This isn’t a game of fiction, Jack. It’s a game of truth. Do you remember what that means?’

  ‘Do you?’

  She stands and saunters around the table, staggering gently now and then, as though she is aboard a ship and must constantly re-seek her balance. Her left index finger traces a route along the chair backs: a circular trail which will return her only to herself. She’s going to say it. Why shouldn’t she? Henry needs to know. They all need to know. She won’t be the villain in all this. Jack Turner is a criminal, for God’s sake.

  ‘Tilda,’ Henry says quietly. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’

  ‘But,’ she replies, still staggering around and around the table, ‘aren’t you interested to know why the police were so willing to lock,’ – she stabs a finger at Jack – ‘him,’ – another stab – ‘up?’

  ‘I know why.’

  ‘No, you see, you don’t.’

  Henry pushes his palms over his face and speaks into his own hot skin. It is sticky in here. He wants to step outside. ‘Then I don’t need to know.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jack says, and all eyes drop on him. He is a lone prey animal suddenly, and they are a tight, bristling pack. ‘Yes, since she mentions it, I think you probably do.’

  And so he recounts it all – mostly – one woman, one name, one lie at a time. He does not hide his cowardly night-time flits. He does not deny the money, the trust, the hopes he stole and kept for himself. He does not pretend that he was sorry, at the time, for breaking all those hearts. What he neglects to say, though, is that there were men too. That admission would lessen Henry, and he will not have Henry lessened. Never that. The man has lost all Jack will let him lose.

  Uninterrupted, Jack talks and talks and talks, laying out all the falsehoods of his life so that Henry can make a map from them and navigate his way to veracity. He talks until his voice dries up and rasps. He talks until he thinks he hears, outside the window, the twinkling fall of birdsong – though he might, he supposes, be wishing for the sound. He needs this night to be finished with. He needs to know whether Henry will still look at him tomorrow the way he is looking at him now. He does not shift his gaze from the other man’s to notice that Monty is nodding and grinning his way appreciatively through every part of his story; or that Sally, exhausted presently by the prospect of her pregnancy, is battling not to soften into sleep; or that Matilda is slumped again in her chair, made empty, empty as the loneliest bed, by the events of the previous months; or that Grayson is dragging at one cigarette after another, suffocating the room with skulking tendrils of smoke.

  Grayson is suffocating himself, too. That is his intention. He had arrived at Monty’s front door struggling for breath. Now, at least, he has a reasonable excuse for the affliction. He cannot admit that it was the thought of telling Matilda about Sally which had stolen the air from his lungs.

  And that has gone as well as can be expected, hasn’t it? Though he hasn’t actually told Matilda anything: not about his plans or his hopes or his regrets. He has been a coward. And he will continue to be, he supposes. After all, what he wants to happen, what he hopes will happen, is the most cowardly possible outcome.

  ‘Well,’ Monty sighs, tapping the gathered deck against the table top now that Jack’s tale has trundled its way into silence. ‘Will we risk another hand after that?�
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  Gray glances at his watch. ‘It’s quarter to four,’ he points out, though he’s not sure why. He has no intention of moving. He does not know where he might go. He knows only this: he wants them to raise the baby together. All of them. The three of them. He has just fully realised it.

  ‘We should go,’ Henry says.

  ‘Where?’ Gray asks.

  Henry considers Jack a moment, then the baby. ‘I’m not exactly sure yet,’ he says, though he is, isn’t he? Really, he was sure of it in that paused pulse of time when Jack stepped out of Pentonville prison, grinning like a man leaving a party. What comes next, though, is his and Jack’s secret, and he wants to keep it that way for a while.

  ‘Did you ever have a plan, Henry?’ Grayson asks. ‘I mean … a big life-plan. Did you decide what you wanted years ago?’

  ‘No,’ Henry answers. ‘Of course not. How could I have ever planned this?’

  ‘But before this. Before Ruby died.’

  Henry shakes his head. ‘Not really.’ He ought to say, not after the war, but he does not. Grayson must understand. He lived it, too.

  ‘Best way,’ Monty puts in.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Sally begins. Now that they are all drunk enough, she is willing to offer her voice. It has not yet been trampled over. ‘A plan not working out doesn’t mean the plan wasn’t valid. Making the plan is still what brings you to a certain outcome, a certain place.’

  ‘Wise words from a woman who’s carrying an accidental child,’ Matilda swipes.

  ‘Isn’t she right, though?’ Monty asks. ‘Isn’t she absolutely spot on? It’s the planning that gets us to wherever we end up, whether we intended it or not. Bravo, young one!’

  ‘And what did you intend, Monty dear?’ Matilda asks.

  ‘I intended to enjoy myself.’

  ‘How is that going?’ Gray laughs.

  ‘Splendidly,’ Monty answers, though the response is less than convincing. It is late, and he is tired, and it is causing him to grow transparent. Even his eyes, right down to the pupils, are greyed by fear: of growing old, of being alone. They see it, now that the alcohol has stripped them all free of themselves. ‘At my age, people are expected to expect only comfort,’ he says. ‘But I decided to expect more, and I’ve done a bloody good job of getting it, if you ask an old sod like me.’

  ‘You’ve never done anything the right way, have you Monty?’ Grayson says.

  ‘I’ve never done anything other people’s way.’ Monty points at Gray as he speaks, his finger and his head ticking to emphasise the gravity of his perspective. ‘But I did things the right way for me.’

  ‘That’s all any of us can do,’ Jack concludes. Henry can tell by the lilt in his voice that he is mocking them. He wants now to be free of them just as much as Henry does. They need to be alone together, so that they can offer up the new promises they will have to consider and accept or discard.

  ‘We really do need to go,’ he says.

  From her place at the table, Matilda speaks. ‘Why the rush?’ she murmurs. ‘You’re never coming back.’ She does not lift her head to catch anyone’s gaze, but stares out through the window to her left, at the lightening of the sky. Grayson follows her look. There is a frill of grey at the night’s edge, revealing itself like a stocking top. It is an exciting thing, this new day. It is flirtatious. It might lead anywhere at all.

  ‘No,’ Henry says. ‘You’re right. We’re not.’ He does not look to Jack as he speaks, but he feels Jack watching him.

  ‘But where will you go?’ Monty enquires. ‘You have to tell us. You simply must.’ Monty, though, is struggling to concentrate on Henry. He can’t keep his eyes off Sally, who may or may not be squirming slightly under the weight of his attentions. She’s a hard one to read, this Sally. Henry shakes his head – that dogged old man! But he will not condemn him. He is trying to keep himself alive, that’s all. He’s just trying to stay alive.

  ‘Somewhere new,’ Henry says.

  ‘Lovely,’ Monty answers. ‘That’ll be nice.’

  ‘Yes.’ Grayson manages to stand and, shoving aside his chair, moves around to press his palm against Henry’s. They clasp each other tight. ‘I suppose it’s good luck, then,’ he says. ‘And I mean that. I really do.’

  He wants to say more, Henry can feel it, but he waits until they are drifting towards the front door, all of them, Matilda and Sally carefully avoiding each other, before he steals a second to give voice to his thoughts.

  ‘I’m well out of my depth here, Twist,’ he whispers, leaning close. ‘What do you suggest? I’ve been thinking about –’

  Smiling, Henry holds up a hand to quiet Grayson. ‘A better soul than me told me once that men drive themselves insane with thinking; that it’s better to just do and be and hope for the best.’

  ‘And that’s what you’re doing,’ Gray concludes.

  ‘That’s what I’m doing.’

  ‘But … how? How do you decide what’s –’

  ‘With your gut, of course,’ Henry says, reiterating Jack’s words exactly. ‘With your gut.’

  They stand in a little pack on the doorstep as Henry and Jack step out into the rupturing night, Libby bundled between them. An ethereal scent, like that which rolls over chill water, is suspended on the air. Their breath paints vapour peonies before them. At this hour, the city is curled in on itself like a sleeping cat. They are held within that briefest crotchet beat of rest, when the partygoers have just retired and the workers are on the brink of rising and the only people awake in London are the troubled, the homeless, the misfits. He and Jack, Henry supposes, are all three now.

  They stare straight ahead as they walk, so that the people behind them cannot discern the movements of their mouths, read their lips. Their words are murmurations.

  ‘So, it’s Wales, then,’ Jack says.

  ‘It’s Wales,’ Henry confirms.

  ‘Why?’

  Henry narrows his eyes, the way he does when he’s planning his next words. Still, Jack thinks; still he cannot just speak freely. Perhaps he never will. ‘Because we’ve both got lives to leave behind,’ he says finally.

  ‘But, you love this city, Henry. Are you sure?’

  At their backs, Monty descends his front steps and shuffles a little way after them. ‘Good luck!’ he calls. ‘Good luck, you handsome buggers!’

  Already some strides away, the two men turn, to wave their thanks, to smile their most assured goodbyes, and then they withdraw into the withering darkness and are lost to those other people, those old friends.

  ‘Henry?’ Jack says again. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Jack laughs, and Henry, noticing again how easily it loosens his face, hopes silently that he will never stop laughing; that he will never cause him to stop. ‘Me neither,’ Jack says. ‘Let’s do it.’

  On the doorstep, the depleted party deflates a little. Monty sighs, loud and unsubtle as a disappointed child. He should have liked to have kept Jack. But the night is over now, and the boy is lost, and really, there is nothing left to do but fold into sleep. In coming together, though, they have denied themselves their usual sleeping arrangements. Grayson cannot go home with Matilda. Sally cannot be expected to slink back to her flat unaccompanied. Grayson will have, finally, to work up the courage to ask the question he’s been orbiting since they arrived. He breathes deep, counting himself into it.

  ‘Mont –’ he begins.

  Monty’s head snaps up, sensing some new to-do. ‘Always,’ he says. And that’s the perfect answer, isn’t it, Gray thinks. Always. Always, Monty is ready to distract himself from the dimming of his own life with the blaze of someone else’s. Always, Monty will find a way to cling to this, the whirling pain and joy and rush of existence.

  ‘Is there a chance we could stay?’

  ‘Of course! Why not?’

  ‘But –’

  ‘But, all of you? I believe I’ve extended that offer to one new family already. It’s equally
open to you and your dears, if you want it. If they want it.’ Monty nods at Matilda, then at Sally. He is brightening again, standing straighter. He likes the idea. He is enjoying, no doubt, how neatly the two women have been trapped in a decision which must be reached mutually.

  Grayson watches as they risk one swift look at each other. Matilda is crying soundless tears, though he is not sure when this started. Sally colours, but holds the look just long enough for them each to lower their head, almost imperceptibly. They are agreeing. They must be. What can they do but say yes? Wrapping herself up in the hurt his betrayal has caused would mean only one thing for Matilda, and being alone, that awful reality, that is the realisation of her most primitive fear. Matilda cannot survive alone. And neither, now, can Sally. To raise a child without a father would prove impossible for so proud a woman. Soon, she will have to give up her teaching job, and how would she survive without it? And then there’s the shame, of course; the lifetime of shame. No, there’s nothing for it but to stay with him. Grayson is overly aware that he has placed them in an impossible situation. He is aware and he is sorry, but he is not about to offer them a way out. Not if he can keep both of them. Not if he can keep all three of them.

  Monty turns back into the house, pausing in the hallway to consider the three people still standing in his doorway.

  ‘So, then,’ he says, grinning. ‘That’s that. And just look at the three of you. You really are a sight, you know.’

  As he speaks, he winks at Sally, and Grayson understands then why they have been invited to stay. Of course, it is because of Sally: only Sally. She is young and beautiful and fresh enough to keep Monty entertained. She is his new game. She is going to get eaten up by him. And really, Gray should warn her about that; he should remove her from the situation; he should tell Monty that whilst they appreciate his offer, they ought to try to find some other home together first.