The Adults

by Caroline Hulse

  Matt frowned. “Pat, please. You’re really upset. Put down the bow and arrow and let’s talk.”

  “An idiot!” Patrick shook his head. “I’ve been everything you wanted, Claire. I’ve not even seen my own kids over Christmas. And this is how you repay me. By leaving me for him!”

  Patrick swung his bow round toward Matt.

  Matt dropped his bow and arrow; they clattered together onto the grass. He put his hands up. “You’ve got it wrong, mate. And you wouldn’t shoot me, you’re not that kind of guy. You’re a good guy, Pat—you’re not yourself this morning. Let’s get off and let me buy you a beer.”

  Patrick felt the wind whip across his neck. He locked his legs in position.

  Matt paused. “But if you won’t stop pointing that bow at me, I’m going to have to point mine at you.”

  Matt waited. He picked up his bow and slid the arrow into place. He waited again.

  Patrick didn’t move, apart from the small vibration of the tension in his body.

  With obvious reluctance, Matt raised his bow and arrow and pointed them at Patrick.

  Patrick panted; he tried to get his breath back. He didn’t lower his bow, despite the pain in his arm.

  Across the field, a bird squawked. Another bird chirped in response.

  The three of them stood still in the field, pointing their shaking weapons at each other, silent.

  54

  Alex and Scarlett wandered away from the ice cream hut in an amiable quiet. The pressure on Alex’s sinuses was growing. This was either an extreme hangover, or a thunderstorm was coming. Or both.

  Spots of drizzle settled on Alex’s eyelashes momentarily. “We need to cross this road.” She gestured with her hand. “Then the archery field should be coming on the right. Your mum and dad will be there already. Hopefully, they’ve saved some arrows for us, hey?”

  A stench of manure wafted over. Scarlett wrinkled her nose.

  Alex smiled in acknowledgment. “The countryside. It’s magical.”

  “It smells.”

  “It really does.”

  The two ambled across the road toward the archery field. Over the wind’s constant roar, Alex thought she heard a shout in the distance. Excitement, probably.

  A sign in front of the field showed a picture of an arrow spearing the center of a target. Archery Arena. Guests should follow health and safety guidelines. Children should be supervised at all times. Enter at your own risk.

  The field was surrounded by a thick bramble hedge, the hedge tidy and recently cut. Still, it was taller than Scarlett.

  Alex walked toward the entrance gate and looked into the field beyond. She faltered.

  She saw Matt, Patrick, and Claire across the field, behind a row of circular targets. The three stood in a near-equilateral triangle, bows poised, pointing arrows at each other in a woodland Mexican standoff.

  Patrick had his back to Alex. He shouted something to Claire, whirling his attention from Matt to her, yet he kept his bow trained firmly on Matt. The other two had their bows pointed at Patrick.

  Alex couldn’t hear the angry discussion going on, but she could see the fear on Matt’s face. The redness of the skin at the back of Patrick’s neck. The wobble of Patrick’s bow as he gestured furiously.

  Alex put her hand on Scarlett’s shoulder. “Stop a second.”

  Scarlett looked up. “What?” She gave no indication she was able to see what was going on in the field.

  Alex consciously straightened her face, still staring ahead. She looked at Matt’s panicked face, at the arrow pointing toward him. The balance of her body was wrong now: like there wasn’t enough weight in her legs to keep her upright. She couldn’t really be here now, like this. She couldn’t really be seeing what she was seeing.

  Matt glanced away from Patrick, toward Claire. In that second, he noticed Alex. The two made distant eye contact.

  Alex reached down to pat Scarlett’s hair in a gesture to Matt.

  Matt widened his eyes. He jerked his bow in a sharp movement and Alex knew what he meant. Get her away from here.

  “Is Posey waiting for me here? Can you see?”

  “No one’s here.” Alex moved her hand to Scarlett’s shoulder. “The archery’s been canceled.” She kept her gaze on the figures in the field. “Because of the rain.”

  Matt looked at Alex for a moment longer, then snapped his gaze back to focus on Patrick.

  “It’s hardly raining at all,” Scarlett said. “I’m not wet. And Posey might come here to find me.”

  “It’ll make the equipment slippery. And dangerous.” Alex heard her voice wobble. “Come on, let’s find something better to do.”

  Patrick pulled his arrow arm back, raising his bow higher. In response, Matt stepped back. He gave his head a tiny shake, his gaze not leaving Patrick’s face.

  “It’ll be dark later.” Scarlett’s voice crept up to a whine.

  “No arguments, missy. We’ll come back tomorrow. Let’s find a fun indoor activity instead, hey? You can do anything you want.”

  Slowly, Alex turned to face the road. She made herself take a step away from the field, then another step.

  One by one, she increased the speed of her steps until she was striding away, Scarlett trailing behind.

  Before they turned the corner out of sight, Alex took one final glance into the field.

  Patrick, Claire, and Matt stood there still in their triangle, bows lifted, tired arms wobbling.

  Alex made herself look away. She focused her gaze straight ahead and ushered Scarlett toward the sports complex.

  * * *

  —

  Alex strode up to the young woman behind the counter. The woman beamed at Alex, her teeth spectral-white and framed by a vibrant coral lipstick, making her mouth hyper-real.

  Everything was hyper-real now. The world was showing itself to Alex with its protective sleeve removed.

  “Hi.” Alex tried to regulate the pitch of her voice. “I’ve got to be somewhere, and I need to leave my daughter here. Now. What activities are there for her to do?”

  The receptionist looked down at her screen. “There are places left at a dance class that’s about to begin. It’s a two-hour session.”

  Alex pulled her purse out of her handbag. “Great.”

  The receptionist peered down at Scarlett. “It’s Intro to Burlesque.”

  “Perfect.” Alex slapped a twenty-pound note onto the counter. “Her name’s Scarlett Cutler and we’re in lodge 219.”

  “It’s aimed at preteens.”

  “She’s got strong thighs, she gives loads of piggybacks. Besides, you’re never too young for burlesque.”

  “Well,” the woman said, “if we have parental permission…”

  “You do.”

  Alex crouched to face Scarlett. “There’s a dance class now. Follow the nice lady. I’ll go and see what”—a lightness overwhelmed her; she put her hand to the floor to keep her balance—“your mum and dad are up to.” She stood up. “Is that OK, Scarlett? You’ll stay here?”

  The sensation of lightness in her body wouldn’t go away. Alex leaned back against the reception desk.

  “What kind of dancing?” Scarlett asked.

  “Grown-up dancing, you’ll love it. Your dad will come and pick you up after, you can show him your moves.” Alex forced a smile. “He’ll be so proud.”

  Scarlett didn’t say anything.

  Alex squeezed Scarlett’s shoulder. “Have fun.”

  Alex turned toward the door. She made herself walk out of the sports center and amble toward the archery field with determined nonchalance. She rounded the corner, speeding up as she went.

  By the time she was over the road, Alex was sprinting. She tore toward the archery field, arms and legs pumping, running as fast as she could.


  55

  “She’s with me!” Patrick knew he was sending out spittle as he shouted, but he couldn’t stop. “She wanted to be with me instead of you. I won!”

  Matt blinked at Patrick, his face neutral.

  Patrick knew it should have felt good to be telling Matt this. So why did Patrick feel like he wanted to cry?

  Patrick tried to control the wobble of his bow. “I won!”

  Matt didn’t look in Claire’s direction. Instead, he kept his bow pointed at Patrick, the arrow lifted but steady. “You won.”

  “And now”—Patrick hated the wobble in his voice—“it’s like I never existed.”

  “You exist, mate.” Matt’s voice was quiet, a new patience in his tone. “You definitely exist.”

  Patrick raged afresh. Matt had a weapon pointed at him, and he was tolerating Patrick.

  “Well, you can’t get back with Claire if I shoot you. You know what, Matt?” Patrick’s tiredness made him struggle with his aim. The point of his arrow was all over the place now, dipping, swooping. His arms were aching, shaking with exertion. “I’m going to shoot you. Right now. And I can shoot, by the way.” He turned his head toward Claire. “See, I did have those archery lessons before I came. I had them when I said I was golfing with Joel.”

  Claire stared at him for a moment.

  “And Nicola Garcia came on to me last night. I dreamed of her for a decade. Yet I said no, Claire. Because of you. Because I love you.”

  “Pat, calm down,” Matt said. “Please.”

  Patrick swung his gaze back round to Matt. “My name’s not fucking Pat! It’s Patrick!”

  “I was trying to be friendly. Sorry, Patrick, mate, I won’t—”

  “You don’t deserve someone like Claire! You’ve never tried for anything in your life. You can’t even get my name right.”

  “It’s Patrick. I’ve got it, it’s Patrick. I won’t forget again, so we’re all good here.”

  “Patrick!” Claire shouted. “Don’t fire at Matt. You’ll only miss.”

  Matt shot Claire a look. “In what way was that helpful?”

  Claire jerked her bow at Matt in a hang on gesture. She turned back to Patrick. “And if you shoot him, then I’ll shoot you. I’ll shoot you so fast, your head will spin.”

  “I told you, Claire, I had archery lessons. So if I shoot at him, I’ll hit. I did homework for this weekend.” Patrick turned back to Matt. “You think you deserve Claire, but I bet you didn’t put any homework in for this weekend. Did you? Did you do homework?”

  “No,” Matt said.

  “I work so hard, and yet you win. You win. How’s that fair? Tell me how that’s fair.”

  “You really need to calm down, mate.” There was a crack in Matt’s voice for the first time. “You’ve got it all wrong, and this isn’t even you. You’re a good man.”

  “I’m angry.”

  “I can see that. Let’s all just take a moment.”

  That tolerance again. Infuriating. “You’re so fucking lucky. This is all the wrong way round. Yet here we are! You’re so lucky.”

  “I don’t feel that lucky right now. Not with a madman—no offense—aiming an arrow at my face.”

  “Shoot him, Matt, before he shoots you!”

  “Claire, you’re really not helping. And he’s not going to shoot me. He’s not that kind of guy.”

  Patrick balked. “I bloody am that kind of guy.” He refreshed the lift of his bow.

  “Shoot him, Matt!”

  Matt lowered his bow, he looked at Claire. “If you’re so keen, why do I have to be the one to shoot him? You’ve got a bow.” Matt glanced back at Patrick. “But no one’s going to shoot anyone today, so let’s all just relax.”

  “I’m going to do it!” Patrick’s bow shook. “Before you try to take me down.”

  “No one’s going to take you down, mate. No one even wants to. You’re the one who keeps banging on about shooting people.”

  When Patrick didn’t say anything, Matt raised his bow again slowly.

  “I’m going to do it.” Patrick’s arrow dipped; he lifted his bow higher. “Right now.”

  Matt shook his head in disbelief.

  Patrick took aim.

  An explosion of pain flared in his shoulder. He staggered backward. Fire! Fire!

  Across the field, Matt dropped his bow and arrow onto the grass. Patrick looked at Matt, then to the arrow, confused.

  Patrick realized he was lying down. He was on the carpet, looking upward.

  No. “Carpet” wasn’t the word for this stuff. “Grass.” “Grass” was it.

  He honestly had no idea what was going on here.

  “Claire, what have you done?” Matt’s voice was barely audible over the siren noise in Patrick’s head. “He wouldn’t have shot me, no way!”

  Patrick looked down at his chest. He saw the wood thing sticking out of him, the redness blooming through his coat. The redness coming from inside him.

  Oh, Christ.

  “He was going to shoot.” Claire’s voice was high-pitched in panic. “I saved your life.”

  “Fucking hell, Claire! I told you he wasn’t going to shoot me.”

  Patrick lifted his head an inch. “To be fair”—his tongue felt like it overfilled his mouth—“I was.”

  He laid his head back down. Was he dying, was that why he said it? Was this how it felt, the need to set the record straight?

  It was because he was a fair man, Patrick realized. A fair man.

  “You weren’t going to shoot me,” Matt said fervently. “You never would have done.”

  “I was.” Patrick licked his lips. “And I would have got the shot bang on.”

  “Oh, God.” Claire dropped her bow on the grass. “What have I done? Is he all right?”

  Patrick tried to generate wetness in his mouth so he could speak. “I see stars, tunnels, everything.”

  Claire knelt next to him. She held his hand.

  “White lights, celestial choir, the lot.”

  The siren roared continuously in Patrick’s head. He felt a heaving pain in his shoulder and upper chest, an emptiness in his stomach and legs. He might not be seeing lights and choirs but he knew, with certainty, he was dying.

  Patrick looked at the concern in Claire’s eyes. “You’re not going to get together with him, are you, Claire? After I’m gone?”

  Claire gave a firm shake of the head. “No. And you’re not going to die.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong.” Matt knelt next to Patrick. “I’m all about Alex, mate.”

  “But you were going to leave me?” Patrick’s voice was higher now, desperate. “Claire? Weren’t you? I wasn’t wrong?”

  Claire looked at Matt.

  “He wants to know,” Matt said. “He really wants to know.”

  “Was I right?” Patrick’s voice was pleading. “I know I was right. I have to have been right. Or—”

  “You’re not dying.” Claire stared at Patrick, unblinking. “But you’re right. I was going to leave you.”

  “Thank you!” Patrick said decisively.

  Claire gave a slow nod. “But not for Matt. That’s so ridiculous.”

  Patrick let his head rest down on the wet, cold grass.

  It hit him that he was dying young, in his physical prime.

  He pictured the throngs of people at his funeral. The flowers. The tears. His kids’ tears. Their realization they hadn’t appreciated him enough when he was alive.

  They’d immortalize Patrick. And this kind of thing would mess Lindsay up for a long time.

  Patrick wondered if Nicola Garcia would go to the funeral.

  He closed his eyes, and decided she probably would.

  56

  Alex reached the gate at the entrance to the archery field.
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  Over the hedge, she saw Matt and Claire kneeling on the grass next to the lying-down Patrick. Both were talking to him, over each other.

  Patrick looked wonky. Broken. There was something sticking out of his shoulder, pointing at the sky.

  Alex put her hands to her mouth. “What have you done?”

  Matt looked up and made eye contact with Alex. Claire jerked her head up.

  Alex ran across the field, stumbling on clods of earth as she ran. “Patrick! Are you OK?”

  Matt took his coat off. He pressed it around the arrow wound. “He’s unconscious. Shock, probably, not blood loss. He’s not dead.”

  Alex knelt down and looked at Patrick. He looked peaceful. “He looks dead.”

  “He’s dead,” Claire cried.

  “Claire”—Matt’s voice was patient—“he’s definitely not dead.”

  “We should phone the police,” Alex said. “The ambulance.”

  Claire leaped up. “And say what?”

  The three looked at one another.

  “Who did it?” Alex heard her voice getting higher.

  Alex stared at Claire and Matt. Neither said anything.

  “This isn’t school, you know. Tell me.”

  Still neither answered.

  Alex took her phone out of her pocket. She pressed 999 and put the phone to her ear. She turned away from the others.

  “We need an ambulance at the Happy Forest holiday park.” Alex’s voice caught. “Please hurry. We’re in the archery field near Santa’s grotto….He’s been shot.”

  After a minute’s conversation with the operator, Alex put the phone on mute. She dropped it into the grass and turned back to Matt. “They’re fifteen minutes away. I stayed on the line with the phone on mute, so they can’t call back.”

  “We need to think,” Matt said. “What to say.”

  “Say the truth. Which one of you shot him?”

  “Does it matter?” Matt’s voice was shaky. “And I know it sounds strange, but he’s happier now. Really, Al. He was smiling.”