by Justin Evans
“I’m not sure I’ve come to the right house,” said Dr. Kahn after a stunned pause.
“Judy, come in.”
Night had fallen. Orange streetlights had engulfed the Hill. The scent of cooking oil and beer were borne by a crisp autumn breeze sweeping the Hill. A nice night to be out. No rain.
Dr. Kahn unwrapped her scarf and entered Fawkes’s apartment. Then she turned around in place, unbelieving. The floor had been mopped. The ashtrays had been emptied—and washed. The magazines and newspapers had been stacked. The dirty plates were no more to be seen, and beyond, in the kitchen, stood rows of dishes in a drying rack, and a bucket and mop. The stereo thumped a song by the Police, high-pitched and driven.
“Now I’m certain this is the wrong house,” she repeated. “What’s gotten into you? Is someone coming for a visit?”
“Sir Alan Vine.” He held her gaze. “I’m on probation.”
“You’re joking.”
He shook his head.
“They’re not blaming you for the boy dying?”
“Not directly, of course. But if I had been more vigilant . . .”
“That’s horribly unfair!”
Fawkes shrugged, turned down the music, and went to the kitchen to put on a kettle. Dr. Kahn flung her coat on the sofa and followed him.
“Who did it—Jute?”
“Who else.”
“Why did he wait so bloody long, then?” she said, indignantly. “It’s been weeks.”
“There were other contributing factors of more recent vintage.”
“Such as?” she asked.
“Let’s see . . . the fact that I smashed down the walls of my own house, and frightened the boys.”
“Yes, I received your message.”
“Were you able to find out anything?” he asked. He went to retrieve a box of tea bags from the cabinet. Dr. Kahn watched as his hands shook violently.
“Piers, are you ill?” she interrupted. “Shall I come back another time?”
He looked at her in surprise. “No, not ill. Please, stay.” His expression turned plaintive.
“All right. Well. I did some cursory reading,” she said. “The Lot is actually constructed around the core of the old house. On the same spot. It was done a hundred and fifty years ago, to save money on demolition and reconstruction, I suppose. What you found is no doubt part of that original house.”
“So this is not a discovery,” he said, disappointed.
“Still, it’s fascinating. I’d like to see it.”
“Jute thinks I’m spreading hysteria.”
“Hm,” she said, taking another look at Fawkes and his spotless kitchen, which had scrubbing powders and paper towels and garbage bags flung about. “I’m still trying to understand all this cleaning, Piers. You’re not yourself.”
Fawkes flung open one of his cabinets and stood aside to show his guest that the white wood box stood empty. “Notice anything?”
“I notice nothing.”
“Exactly. This cabinet used to contain gin, vodka, eau de vie, whiskey, bitters . . . calvados . . . Filfar . . .” He took in Dr. Kahn’s questioning look. “My sobriety was called into question,” he explained.
She pursed her lips. “I see.”
“I know, I know. You’ve been warning me.”
“Jute said this.”
“He said the boys were noticing.”
“Did he suggest some sort of program?”
Fawkes snorted. “Jute is not the program type.”
“No.”
“He said we must uphold professional standards. He wants me out, obviously.” Fawkes slammed the cabinet door shut. “So I’m stopping.”
“Stopping drinking!” she declared. “You?”
“Don’t make fun, Judy. I’m about to fucking fall apart as it is.” He put a hand to his forehead and used the other to lean against the counter. “I feel like a badly made toy. Like I’m about to sproing all over, my gears falling out . . . like I’m held together by tape.”
“Your metaphors are suffering as well,” she observed wryly, but he gave her such a mournful glance that she broke into a pitiful laugh. “Oh, Piers, I’m only teasing. I’m relieved. You were drinking far too much. You would have been dead by sixty.”
He grunted. “I can’t write.”
“You’ll readjust.”
“I can’t sleep.”
Dr. Kahn chewed her lip. “Piers,” she said at last, in a gentle tone of voice.
“Hm?”
“Your kettle’s boiling.”
“Ah!” Steam had been billowing and frothing from the spout. Fawkes grabbed the kettle and promptly burned his hand. He leapt back, sucking the wound, then thrust it under cold water in the tap. Dr. Kahn calmly turned off the gas and watched her friend in pity.
THEY SAT AT Fawkes’s kitchen table with two steaming mugs of tea in front of them. Fawkes spooned four teaspoons of sugar into his. Then, after a moment, a fifth. He smoked. He hugged himself with his arms. His foot tapped the floor. He offered Dr. Kahn milk for the third time.
“The fact is, I couldn’t write before, either,” he said suddenly.
Dr. Kahn waited.
“I was frozen on the bloody play for nine months. Not until the American showed up did I have the slightest whisper of inspiration.”
“Why him?”
“He’s the picture of Byron! Well, Byron at that age. Angry, needy. Also, there’s something . . . skittish about him. Have you noticed? Like if you don’t feed him the exact morsel of attention he needs, he’ll fall apart. Do you know what I mean?”
She nodded. “At the library, two nights ago, he became quite unhinged.”
“He’s got me back on track, somehow. Like giving me a sitter, to paint. Emotionally Starved Orphan. Oil on canvas.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Hm?”
“Why do you think meeting Andrew inspired you?”
“The ghost story, for one thing. He told you?”
“He did.”
“What did you think?”
“Credible,” she said after a pause.
Fawkes gave her a look of surprise.
“I felt something strange when I came home the other night,” she said, explaining herself. “When you called. It was extremely unpleasant.”
“You, too?” Fawkes described what he and Andrew had experienced in his study. “I wondered if it was just me. Just us.”
“Us meaning . . . ?”
“Andrew and me.”
“Hm,” she grunted. Then ventured: “I think there’s another reason why Andrew Taylor is inspiring you.”
“What’s that?”
“I think he’s a reflection of you. Because you’re the one who’s emotionally starved.”
“Are you going to psychoanalyze me?”
“Why did you start drinking so much?” she countered.
“Because I’m thirsty,” he said. “Not because I’m starved.”
“Be serious.”
“Because a bloody teenager died in my house!” Fawkes burst out. “Because every family within a hundred miles is emailing me, wanting answers, wanting explanations. Because the head man, and Theo Ryder’s parents, are blaming me! They say, Oh, sure, it’s an undetectable disease,” he said, flatly, “and you’re not a doctor. But underneath, you can tell. It’s the way they look at you. Somehow, if you were doing your job right, it wouldn’t have happened. But of course! How could I have forgotten my Handy Housemaster Undetectable Disease Kit! I could have saved the day!”
“Quite right,” said Dr. Kahn, coolly.
“You’re humoring me. I did everything I could for him, Judy,” he said. “I took him to the bloody morgue.”
“I know.”
“And still I get the blame! What am I doing wrong?”
“You’re being,” Dr. Kahn said, in answer, “a selfish, narcissistic prick.”
He sat up straight, stung.
“Really.”
“Yes, really.”
“Would you be so kind as to explain?”
“A boy died, Piers.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“What do we do when other people die?”
“We drink ourselves silly.”
“Yes. And we make it all about us, and we make it a big drama involving the headmaster, and we spend a lot of time whinging about how it’s going to affect our poetry,” she said acidly.
“Ouch,” said Fawkes.
“What do other people do when their loved ones die?” She repeated the question rhetorically.
“I haven’t the foggiest. Weep. Ululate. Tear their hair out.”
“No one close to you has died?”
“My dad, some years ago.”
“And?”
“I went on a bender. I drank and fucked everything in sight for six weeks. I gained ten pounds. I got herpes,” he added. “So I’m maturing.”
She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “The word I’m searching for is mourning, Piers.”
“I’ll be that light, unmeaning thing,” he intoned, “that smiles with all, and weeps with none.”
“Quotations. You’re a bag of them. But you’re all ashes and straw inside.”
“Ashes and straw. I’m going to use that.”
“To mourn is a transitive verb. You should appreciate that, at least. You mourn someone. Have you mourned Theo Ryder?”
“I barely knew him,” he grunted.
“He was a boy in your house.” Dr. Kahn watched him. Fawkes’s face hung slack. Puffy, pale, spotty. He did look ill, and miserable. “You cared for him. In every sense.”
“Did I?”
“You did,” she said emphatically. “You did a fine job.”
“Thank you, Judy.”
“But we’re still talking about you, aren’t we?”
“I barely knew him!” He threw up his hands.
She changed tack. “When Jute put you on probation, why did you decide to stop drinking? Why not just go on another bender?”
“I need to finish the play,” he mumbled.
“Because you’re better than Jute thinks. You said it yourself. You did everything you could for Theo, and if you quit now, you’re the housemaster who let a boy die in his house, who couldn’t cope. And that’s not you. And you’ve got boys relying on you now, who need you. Andrew Taylor. What did you call him? A beggar? An urchin?”
“Orphan.”
“He’s Oliver Twist, holding out his bowl, begging. You’re not the kind to walk away. You think you are. But you’re not, really.”
“Andrew Taylor is merely a means for me to understand Byron better,” Fawkes said coldly, stubbing out his umpteenth cigarette of the day. “I want this ghost business to pan out. I want to use it for the play. If not in the actual plot, then to get the play published. Andrew is the lynchpin.”
“Surely even you are not that mercenary?” Dr. Kahn eyed him searchingly. “Are you?” He did not answer. “Tell me you’re joking, Piers. That’s a despicable way to treat someone.”
He avoided her gaze. “Of course I’m joking.”
“Are you helping him?”
“I’m helping him with his research,” he said.
She shook her head. “You need to do more. He’s suffering. He’s your next Theo, Piers. But this one, you can save.”
“Me? Save someone else?”
“I know. It sounds improbable.”
Fawkes slurped the sugar sludge from the bottom of his teacup and set the cup down with a shaking hand.
“How long has it been since you’ve had a drink?” she asked, with sympathy.
“Forty-six hours.” He glanced at the clock. “And forty-one minutes.”
“You made that decision on your own, Piers. You knew you had to change. That means you’re doing it already. I have faith in you.”
“I feel a hundred years old.”
“You look awful,” she acknowledged.
“Thanks,” he drawled sarcastically. Then added: “Cunt.”
She smiled. “Give me one of those.” She reached over and lit herself a cigarette.
“What if I’m not cut out for it?” he said at last.
“Cut out for what?”
“For being . . . you know. Caring. Being a human being.”
“Of course you are. We all are.”
“You’re not,” he said accusingly.
“What an awful thing to say!”
“You and your archives,” he continued. “Barking at your assistants, frightening the boys to death. Guarding your library like an ogre.”
“You’re calling me an ogre now!”
“Maybe some people are just not cut out to be with other people,” he concluded.
They both reached for their tea and sipped.
“Well,” she said, after a silence, “I’m here now, aren’t I?”
Their gazes met, and held. Fawkes’s frown melted into a reluctant smile.
12
Essay Club
“TAYLOR.”
The voice was a commanding tenor, nasal, even though it came from the great round rib cage of Sir Alan Vine. The other boys cast sidelong glances at Andrew, as they might at a traffic accident, before they filed out of the Leaf Schools classroom with their hats cocked and their green-and-white Harrow-issue notebooks in hand. Andrew watched them enviously.
“Sit.” Sir Alan held out a hand toward an empty desk.
Andrew squeezed into it. The desks were designed for your average fourteen-year-old. Sir Alan remained standing. He leaned against the podium on the shallow dais from which he taught. He wore a grey suit under his black beak’s robes.
“I don’t know you well, Taylor,” he began. “But I’d like to have a talk.” He crossed to the classroom door and closed it. “Just the two of us, for a moment.”
Andrew gulped. Persephone. Sir Alan had found out about their plans for Saturday, he was sure of it.
The night before, Andrew had received a series of texts:
My mum’s house in Hampstead will be empty this weekend. Care to join me? Discretion, discretion. Sir A need not know. Her name so you don’t cock it up is Fidias. Don’t call her fiddy-ass in your American accent. Fee THEE ES.
He had read the texts voraciously, reading each one as if it were a novel. Begun an obsessive imagining, of seeing Persephone boldly naked, of wrapping up in sheets with her like man and wife, of exercising independence in ways such as: watching a DVD; ordering takeout; not having seventy-nine boys tussling around you, sharing your table, crapping in your toilet, leaving scum on the bathroom floor for you to rub your toes in as you shower. He knew she would be better alone, not furtively ducking in and out of classrooms and dorm rooms but romping around in a whole house. Letting her great eyes blink at him the way they did, letting that strange womanly quality pour over him . . . Anyway. Fuck. Now it was ruined. They were busted.
“Sure, what’s up?” Andrew asked, trying to sound braver than he felt.
Sir Alan winced at the familiarity of his tone, but shrugged it off. “I’m concerned,” he said. “About you.”
“Why?”
“It’s an adjustment coming to a new school, a new country. And you’ve come to it in most unusual circumstances. It’s not every day a Sixth Former dies at Harrow.”
Andrew looked down.
“I knew Theo Ryder,” Sir Alan continued, pensively. “I taught him for his O-Levels. Not the best scholar. But a good temperament. He would have done well. Despite what we project to our students here, being proficient in lessons is not always the greatest indicator of success. Sport is better. Means you’re competitive, you like to win, you can handle being bruised and buffeted. It means you can be a leader. There are others here, and not just the students, who fail that same test.”
Andrew waited. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about? That I should get more involved in sports?”
Sir Alan’s eyebrows rose. Andrew’s tone was even, but there was something insolent ab
out his question. “Not sport. I want to talk to you about your housemaster. Piers Fawkes.”
Andrew looked up in surprise.
“Mr. Fawkes is a poet.” Sir Alan let that hang there, his pause casting a shadow over the word. “Which is all very well. I was a solicitor before I became a teacher. We each have our crosses to bear.” He grinned a wide, yellow smile. Andrew tried to smile in return but instead found himself noticing the tiny grey hairs growing along the bridge of Sir Alan’s nose, and the thicker ones tufting in his ears. “I am evaluating his performance as a housemaster.”
“Mr. Fawkes’s performance?”
“After Theo’s death, we have to inquire. Too much at stake, with eighty boys in a house. One chief concern, frankly, is his stability. It’s hard, when one of your boys suffers a tragedy like that. I have a daughter. As you know. And the thought of anything happening to her . . . well, it can undo even the strongest. I see that. But . . .” His tone rose higher, as if to disguise the significance of what came next: “I understand there is some business between you two, and . . . something about the Lot ghost. Can you explain that to me?”
Andrew stalled for time. “Business?”
But Sir Alan was too practiced a solicitor to fall for that. He clamped his mouth shut and stared fiercely back at Andrew, waiting for him to answer the original question.
“People in the house told me about the Lot ghost . . . ,” stammered Andrew.
“People?”
“Matron.”
“Go on.”
“So that’s how . . . that’s how I know about it.”
“Everyone knows about it,” persisted Sir Alan. “I want to know what you have to do with it. In particular.”
Andrew felt his face flush. “On my first day,” he said, “Matron gave me a tour of the Lot, and I thought I felt something in the basement.”
“Something like?”
“Just . . . a shiver. Gave me the creeps, that’s all.”
“Did you see a ghost?”
“I was jet-lagged,” Andrew said quickly. “I guess I got kind of scared.”
“How did Fawkes get involved?” he asked.
“I told him. He was concerned.”
“You told him about the ghost?” Sir Alan grew animated. “Did he believe you?”
“Sir?”
“You said he was concerned. Is that why? Because he believed you had seen a ghost?”