by S. G Mark
He had no intention of speaking to her and not for lack of compassion. Had he opened his mouth he knew damn fine what he might say and that put more lives at risk than it did to risk her heart alone.
Cocooning herself in her duvet, she raged out after him.
“You’re just leaving, is that it?” she yelled at him as he pulled his jacket on.
He yanked open the front door and a rush of realism flushed with cold air plunged around him.
“You bastard!” she yelled, the door slamming derisively behind him.
Chapter Seventeen
Vomit spewed volcanically from his stomach as acid dripped from his tongue like an afterthought. Twenty minutes of his life he had spent spinning on the bathroom tiles waiting for the moment for his insides to give way. It was both relief and torment, in equal measure. Alcohol still tingled in his extremities, and plagued his taste buds.
Withdrawing from the toilet bowl, the room spun round ever more quickly and the more he tried to focus, the dizzier he became. Alongside the flush came an instant, but short lived, relief as he watched the contents of his stomach splash and ripple down the drain. Mentally, he was glad to be shot of the paprika stained concoction, but as the cistern began to fill up again, so too did his mouth with an acidic residue and a fresh batch of alcoholic soup.
Ten minutes later he emerged to two pairs of judging eyes. For the first time since they had met they were united. Lana verbally tutting, Emma shaking her head.
“Good night?” Lana raised an eyebrow before redistributing her attention to her toast.
“Too good by the sound of it,” Emma winked, “We heard every… well, morsel?”
“Fuck off,” Jack sighed, sliding down the wall to the foetal position. He wanted to die. He wanted every nerve in his body to shut down. He wanted to be numb. Numb and asleep.
“Do you want some water?” Lana said, swallowing the last of her slice.
Jack shook his head and beat his fist on the carpet. Words were an effort; an effort he was too distracted to make as the memories of the previous night came crashing into his mind.
Train from Oxford at half eight. Tungsten amber streetlights paired with a harvest moon; the world cast in tangerine darkness. Off licence shortly after arrival into Paddington, post security check and quick pat down by guards. The Harry Kirk charm working a treat. Wine, vodka and whisky in basket, quick exchange of money at till. Bus shelter sip before the two-five-six pulled in, another surreptitious gulp as it pulled out; five before the change he needed to make, two before the next one arrived and most of the first bottle had gone by the time he stumbled into the empty flat at eleven o’clock. Both Emma and Lana were out or elsewhere in the flat, by that stage he couldn’t have cared. Falling into the sofa he cracked open bottle number two and drained it dry as he recalled every regret in his life. Right back to his first day of high school when he sided with the popular kid instead of the one who was being bullied; to the test he cheated on in his second year, to the Chemistry exam he failed, to his many detentions and the embarrassing scene he’d caused during one assembly. As the bottle level sank, time marched on, and soon he was sitting alone in his sister’s bedroom digging a compass needle into his palm for every petty argument they had ever had. He took double gulps for his relationship with Jane and treble for when he had to drop out of university. By the time he had come around to his sister’s return he simply downed the second bottle and opened the third. The last bottle was a long drawn out episode of tension and remorse. The final words he had exchanged with his mother. The last look she gave him; a look of contorted repulsion, anger and love, he just hadn’t realised the last element at the time. Death turned to funeral; funeral to isolation; isolation to an adopted family and a life of sugar coated lies. He remembered staring blankly up at the damp-stained ceiling and thinking that he had no reason to lie to the Readers. Had he explained, Maggie would have understood; probably even Alex. But he didn’t. He chose to hide and that was how he had been judged. Another bottle gone and then it was morning and his head was down the toilet pan spewing everything he had ever consumed.
“I want to die,” he groaned, face down in a cushion.
They’d moved him to the sofa and Emma was presently tempting him with baked beans on toast. His tongue yearned for something other than alcohol, his stomach lurched and creaked with queasiness.
“I told you an hour ago, quit complaining or I will seriously think about helping you,” Emma snapped, withdrawing the plate of steaming hot food.
His hand reached for it, “I want it near me.”
“Right,” she said, patience clearly testing her.
Eyes still firmly closed, Jack heard her place the plate on the coffee table. A moment later and there were whispers coming from the other room.
“I can hear you!” he shouted, muffled under the cushions.
“Shut the fuck up,” Lana cried, “Eat your damn food!”
Jack raised his head a fraction from the cushion and inhaled his surroundings. It was already dusk - though quite what that meant towards the end of February was anyone’s guess. Right now his mind was numb to all meaning and feeling save the gripping pains internally and the throbbing headache that he could blame on no one else but himself.
And suddenly he remembered what had brought him to the off licence in the first place. It wasn’t anything from his past; it wasn’t the regret of all the mistakes he had made, it was the person he was becoming. He knew what it was, he knew he was siphoning off every last slice of decency he had in him. Naive he may be, but that did not necessarily make him a fool.
An hour later and he was stuffing cold toast down his throat, visualising the calories flicking through his body to try and raise his muscles from the grave. His stomach still heaved, but there was nothing left to throw up. Emma was staring down judgmentally at him, tutting every time he groaned from the sheer uncomfortableness.
“It’s clear to me how you handle your hangovers, that you’ve never actually been shot,” Emma said, casually and not removing her eyes from the Sunday paper she was reading. Jack spied a caption - another MP in trouble.
“Do you fancy symmetrical arms?” Jack retorted.
The corner of Emma’s mouth curled up into a smile.
By eight that evening, he was feeling significantly better; though spattered with trips to the bathroom, where he would lie on the floor with his head slumped against the bowl, waiting for the inevitable. But it had been a few hours since he had last felt intensely uneasy and as he dozed off to sleep he knew he was on the final road to recovery.
“Where are you going?” Lana asked, poking her nose round the corner of their bedroom as Jack adorned his jacket and tied his shoelaces.
“I’ve something to do,” he said, shaking his wet hair - the morning shower had resurrected him. He smiled maniacally at her as he shut the front door behind him.
The stairwell stunk, as it always did. Rubbish bags clung to corners like mold evolving in a fridge. He passed a few of the neighbours as he walked out of the estate, keeping his eyes to the ground in a concentrated daze of self preservation.
The CRU were patrolling the area. He passed the officers and smiled politely at them - his insides twirling with a keen rebellion. Officers without orders were rarely ever to be feared, but there was the odd rogue who followed his own rules of bloodthirst and brutality. By now, Emma and Lana had calculated their exact patrol routes - contingency plans for if they ever needed to escape the safehouse quickly.
As Jack made his way into the underground station, he spied a couple of CRU officers forcing a group of men against a wall. He checked the time: midday random search. Instead of watching the exciting events, everyone noticeably turned their heads away from the scene; even Jack.
The train was as disgusting as ever. It stunk as if people slept on it and they probably had; homeless nomads with nowhere to go and maybe even a few Unsightlies on the run. For forty minutes Jack slipped into conscious dream as he
lived out how his plan would take effect. Since he had last seen Julian, he had grown in confidence and the last few days had sharpened his manipulation skills.
It was therefore with reckless arrogance that he appeared on the doorstep to the man’s home and rung the bell. He swept his now dry hair backwards and cruised a finger across his stubbly chin. Two days ago he’d been with the daughter, now he’d returned to twist the knife in with the father.
Beth answered the door, at first a faint expression of ignorance before her lipsticked mouth spread into a broad smile.
“Harry,” she brought him in for a hug, “How good to see you again! Come in! Come in!”
she waved him through.
Warmth swarmed around him and he was instantly brought back to Hogmanay by the smell of the burning fire in the living room. As he walked through the hallway he noticed the family pictures, guilt etching a little as he recognised Saskia.
“We were just about to sit down to lunch, I’ll just pop into the dining room and set you a place. Julian’s in his study, do me a favour and fetch him for me?” she whizzed away from sight.
Jack peered up the stairs. The house creaked with its sheer magnitude. All along the staircase, though he had not noticed it before, were framed family photographs through the ages. Saskia seemed to be an only child, though there were photographs with her and two boys - presumably cousins as the younger was very similar to the boy he’d met at Hogmanay. An evolution of hairstyles and fashion choices passed him until at the very top step he saw the last photograph. Saskia at what appeared to be her High School Prom, a few years younger than she was now but significantly younger. Her features were more childlike and though she was pretty in her blue dress, she lacked the maturity she carried with her now.
The study door was shut. Jack crossed the landing and pressed his ear against the wood. Classical music was fragrantly playing, but he heard no sign of the man himself. Straightening up, Jack rapped his knuckles on the door.
There was a moment before Jack heard the sound of a chair scraping back and footsteps approaching; the door handle turned and a sliver of ambient light poured through as Julian’s eyes clasped onto his own in a tempestuous battle of fear.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he said, his voice carried off by the classical music.
“Beth asked me to fetch you for lunch,” Jack said facetiously.
“What the fuck are you doing in my house,” he grunted.
“Later,” he said, “Lunch is ready and I absolutely love your wife’s cooking.”
The three of them sat down to lunch at the dining table. Mahogany surroundings with chintz beige chairs, pristine white tablecloth and set of cherished silver cutlery. Goblets of wine had been poured, stationed by their empty plates until such time that politeness ceased intervention. Pale yellow walls were interrupted by more framed family photographs and the occasional Monet print. An old grandfather clock stood sentinel at the end of room opposite to the glass double doors which led into the kitchen. Its rigid rhythm stirred the tension between the two men.
Beth was pottering in the kitchen, preparing the finishing touches to her cooking. It smelled fantastic and Jack’s distant hungover state was clawing at the calories it promised. For a few minutes Jack had baited conversation with Julian, who offered little more than grunted replies and the occasional word so as not to rouse the suspicions of his wife. But all had been quiet for some time now.
Jack stared at his wine glass both tempted and repulsed by it. No amount of teeth scrubbing would cleanse his mouth from his foul morning after alcohol breath. Perhaps another drop could be the only remedy, or at least a surrender into full blown alcoholism.
Meanwhile Julian was tapping his fingertips on the table. He was counting, or had an odd melody trapped in his head. His eyes were glazed over and Jack was sure his mind was entirely elsewhere. As he watched the man’s jaw nearly tremble with fear, a sliver of sympathy shot through Jack’s chest. He pitied the poor man with the wealthy bank account and salubrious house; and yet he screwed his daughter to get what he wanted from him regardless.
Julian caught Jack gazing at him and he jumped out of his reverie. He shuffled his cutlery around nervously and rearranged the napkin on his lap several times.
“It’s good timing that you came over today,” Beth said, bursting through the double doors, carrying a hot oven dish with giant cotton gloves that looked as if they had seen more generations than they cared to admit. “Our daughter, Saskia, was going to pop over, but she called last minute to say she had to get an assignment out of the way. So plenty of food to go around.”
Beth navigated her way around the dining table beautifully, her feet emanating a ballet dancer as she span around the table carrying the heavy dish. Julian barely batted an eyelid at her and merely caressed his fork in anticipation.
The dish landed with a thud on the wooden protective board. Bubbling and sizzling lasagne ensnared Jack’s senses and he almost forgot that he wasn’t here to be fed.
“No doubt at the pub!” she said, dolloping a large slice onto Jack’s plate.
“She’s at Oxford isn’t she?” Jack said, readying his stomach for the feast, “Julian mentioned she was studying philosophy.”
Julian whipped a look at Jack, his face rapidly fading to translucent white. Oblivious, Beth continued dishing out slabs of lasagne.
“Yes, in her second year now,” she smiled proudly, “She is absolutely loving university life though, absolute loving it. She’s joined all the clubs and seems to have a roaring social life, always in the pub or at some event or other. Really getting stuck into life. We’re a bit worried that she’s maybe been a bit distracted from her studies though, aren’t we?”
Julian was staring down into his plate; his face, heavily contorted, read no trace of ease.
“We’re a bit worried, aren’t we?” Beth prompted her husband, who glanced up instantly at her.
She looked concerned that her husband wasn’t behaving as he usually might. Interestingly, she asked little of it and instead sat herself down and commenced eating.
Relief that it was finally fine to eat without risk of rudeness, Jack dug into his own plate and instantly the wave of hunger was satiated.
“How have you been though?” Beth asked, indignantly slicing up her lasagne and mixing it in with the leaves of rocket she’d placed decoratively on the side.
“I’ve been very well,” Jack struggled to be polite as he wolfed down each morsel, “Work has been very busy of late - and I’ve been working with Julian a lot as well. It’s been good though. Best to keep busy.”
“Oh,” Beth lowered her fork, “Julian never mentioned anything about you two working more closely together?”
She shot a glance at her husband, narrowing her eyes. Jack sensed her frustration at her husband’s blatant mental absence. Frustrated though she was, Beth whimsically laughed off her husband’s behaviour.
“What’s he like?” she rolled her eyes with weighted hyperbole. “Bloody typical.”
Lunch was devoured and the wine splashed refreshingly. Beth steered the conversation - the terrible news of the latest Resistance bombing through to the most recent encounter with an Unsightly that had shaken her for a few days. The tale had begun with a justification as to why she had required to use public transport - expressly the District Line into town. As story unfolded, Jack was told about how Beth was accosted in the fourth carriage at Earl’s Court Station by beggars who had shoved a sodden paper cup stuffed with loose change in her face. The description of how badly they stunk continued for a few minutes until she could stomach it no more and collected their plates, departing the dining table to load the dishwasher.
As the glass door clanked into place, Jack stared at his companion as he withdrew his mobile phone and opened up the photograph he had taken yesterday evening. Feeling sicker than he ever had this morning, he slid the phone in front of Julian’s chin; finally seizing the man’s attention.
At first his eyes bulged with fear, and then his cheeks flushed with anger. His knuckles, resting on the edge of the table, were tinged with purple. He made to grasp the phone, but thought against it.
“Get out of my house,” he seethed as two dangerous pupils latched on to Jack’s.
“Gorgeous girl,” Jack said, “I’d love to see her again… but she’s quite… energetic...”
He tailed off as Beth returned.
“I’m sorry but I haven’t prepared a dessert,” she apologised, “I can offer you tea?”
“Actually, Julian and I have some business to discuss ahead of a meeting on Tuesday. Perhaps a brandy in your office…?”
Julian stood up rigidly. Guns were superfluous to the situation: Jack only needed implied threat to puppeteer this man.
Without word or physical instruction, Julian walked purposefully out of the room. As Jack stood up to follow, he glanced at Beth, who shrugged her shoulders apologetically, but spoke nothing of her husband’s foul mood.
Reconvening in the study, Jack prepared himself for nasty revolt from Julian. As he shut the door closed behind him, the tsunami hit.
“You’re a despicable cunt. I don’t care what kind of threats you’re going to throw at me - I don’t fucking care how much money you think you can extort from me, I’m calling the CRU right now,” he said, his purple hand on his desk phone.
Feigning confidence, Jack laughed openly, “No you’re not.”
“Yes, yes I am! Pricks like you need to be locked up - you don’t deserve to live,” he said, still not picking up the phone.