by B P Walter
He carried on making his excuses, going round and round, saying the same thing over and over again about how it was his only choice, he just wanted to save his sister, it was a moment of madness but he acted out of love. ‘Was it though?’ I eventually cut in. He blinked at me, confused by the question. ‘Was it entirely out of love?’ I clarified. ‘Or was it something else?’
‘What do you mean?’ he said, although Matthew wasn’t stupid. I think he’d worked out the point I was making.
‘Well, you said yourself how much of an effect Johnny’s attack had on you. How his awful treatment of you that night in the grounds of the castle had haunted you. So I’m asking: are you sure you killed Johnny because of the danger posed to your sister? Or for another reason? Like … revenge.’
He kept his eyes on me. Staring wide. Pleading. ‘I just wanted to save my sister.’
Another lie. I knew it as soon as I heard it. Whether it was because he couldn’t admit it to himself or because he couldn’t bear telling it to me, I don’t know. But after that moment, I didn’t want to hear any more.
‘Well then, that was a fairly pointless reason, wasn’t it?’ I said, flatly. ‘Because she died less than a month later. You know, if Johnny Holden had still been alive, and they’d been together when she took that industrial dose of heroin, maybe he’d have been able to save her.’ I knew my words were cruel, but I said them anyway. They didn’t bring me satisfaction as such; they were more anaesthetic to my pain and anger and a steadily churning nausea that had started to rise within me once more.
Ignoring Matthew’s pleas to stay, I went to the bed, picked up a pillow and told him we’d speak in the morning. I was done.
Of course, we didn’t end up speaking in the morning. We wouldn’t end up speaking until the day he died.
Chapter Forty-Four
Charlie
The week of the murder
The heat wave that had engulfed the south of England from mid-June to late July burnt itself out as we entered August. Suddenly the skies were grey, the temperature was colder, and autumn was definitely on the horizon. Golden leaves littered the pavements of Chelsea; they’d fallen prematurely due to the searing heat, and now, coupled with the colder weather, gave the impression of October rather than late summer.
Matthew stayed away from the house for five days. Part of me wondered if he’d ever return at all.
I couldn’t face going into the office, so told them I was unwell and stayed in the house, unsure what to do with my time. Things reached an apex when Jane started hoovering around me, so I tried to do something productive – from reading to exercise – but conflicting senses of both tiredness and buzzing restlessness consumed me.
On Tuesday morning, when I was answering a few work emails on my iPad at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, I heard the thud of the front door and then a bag being dropped onto the carpet. My heart instantly started to pound, expecting Matthew to stroll into the kitchen, but it wasn’t Matthew. It was Titus.
The realisation was both one of relief and disappointment. I wasn’t even sure what footing I was on with the boy at the moment after our borderline row on Sunday morning. He’d sent me a message the day before that just read Still alive, but nothing more.
‘You’ve decided to move back home, have you?’ I said, meaning it to sound only semi-serious.
‘I hadn’t moved out,’ Titus said, coolly. He wandered over to the fridge and drank some orange juice from the container, then filled up a glass.
‘So how was the shag-athon?’
Titus narrowed his eyes as he surveyed me across the kitchen countertop. ‘That’s a bit … I don’t know, inappropriate.’
I shrugged a little. ‘Well, if you’re going to act inappropriately, womanising all round London before you’re of age to do so, I don’t think I’ll bother sugar-coating my language.’
He set the glass down with a thud. ‘Where’s Dad?’
‘Scotland,’ I replied, starting to type out nonsensical rubbish in an email just to make a point of showing my attention was elsewhere.
I saw Titus watching me still and after a few more seconds I paused and turned off the device. ‘Things are just a bit … a bit, well … your dad needed some space for a few days. Things will be back to normal soon, I promise.’
A flicker of sadness entered his eyes, and I saw a glimpse then of the kind, loving, sensitive boy that had been gradually growing harder to see over the past few months. I moved round the kitchen island and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Are you OK?’
His jaw jutted out a little and his lips tightened as if he were trying not to cry. He then sniffed and gave a curt nod. ‘Yeah, fine.’ He took a step back from me and said, ‘I’m going to go upstairs and take a shower. Pippa’s coming round.’
That made me freeze. ‘What?’
He adopted the same slightly belligerent, matter-of-fact tone he’d had on Sunday morning when he told me he was off to stay at Melanie’s Kensington flat. ‘Yeah, she’s in town with some friends on a trip to Harrods and said she’d pop by. She might bring a friend with her.’
My mouth opened and shut like a fish as I tried to think of a response to this. ‘She … she just thought she’d pop by, did she?’
This earned a shrug from Titus. ‘Yeah. Don’t worry, we’ll keep to my room.’
I gaped at him, ‘But … you’ve literally just got back from Melanie’s. And whatever you were doing there for two whole days, I’ll bet it wasn’t just tea and crumpets. And now you’ve got Pippa just dropping by, maybe with a friend in tow?’
The tumbler landed on the floor with a smash, spraying the hard tiled ground with tiny glass fragments. It hadn’t been aimed to hit my head, but the shock shook me so thoroughly it felt like Titus had pulled a gun on me. ‘Just back the fuck off, OK?’ he shouted at me. ‘Just because you two now live practically like priests or brothers doesn’t mean I need to with my friends.’
His words astonished me. ‘What did you say?’
‘You know what I mean. You guys don’t fuck any more. Haven’t for ages.’
I could feel the blood rising to my face, and a nest of panic and anxiety that was already close to the surface was now flooding through me. ‘That is none of your … and how the hell would you know about our sex lives?’
‘We live under the same roof! It’s not a huge house. My room is next to yours.’
Images flashed through me. Me laying a hand on Matthew and him moving away. The time I tried to follow him into the shower and him stepping out of it. The weeks and weeks going past without him properly touching me. Us briefly attempting sex in New York but opting for sleep instead before we’d got very far. Me trying to keep up the pretence that there wasn’t something wrong, some change that was growing between us. And now here was our teenage son, proving that my efforts to keep up an everything’s-fine façade had been in vain.
I thought about telling him we do it quietly or when he’s out, but the thought of even speaking about the subject made my stomach turn. And, of course, it would have been lies. All lies. And lies were something I hated. But before I’d thought up a dignified response, he’d walked off, stomping up the stairs, then slamming the bathroom door. I heard the hum as the boiler kicked into action.
It took me a while to locate a dustpan and brush – not usually my domain – and I’d just finished sweeping up the last splinters of glass when I heard movement on the stairs. Titus stood by the door to the kitchen, dressed in a crisp new shirt and chinos, though he hadn’t yet put any shoes or socks on.
‘I’ve come to say sorry,’ he said. He put it in a brisk, business-like way, as if it were a task on his to-do list he didn’t really want to complete, but knew he probably should.
I sighed as I poured the glass into the bin and set the cleaning implements aside. ‘It’s fine. I’m sorry I made you angry.’
Even though I wasn’t properly looking at him, I could hear Titus’s breathing. There was something else he wanted to say. �
��I shouldn’t have said those things … about you and Dad and … well … I don’t think you’re like priests.’
Against my better judgement, this made me laugh. ‘I’m pleased to hear it. I didn’t realise our … problems were so noticeable.’
We were both silent for a few moments, then I spoke again, this time addressing something that had just struck me. ‘When you say … well … you implied that you can hear things. From our room. Can you hear things clearly?’
It was Titus’s turn to blush now. ‘A bit. But it’s fine. Melanie hears her Mum and step-father at it all the time.’
I shook my head. ‘I didn’t mean that. I meant … can you hear us talk?’
An odd expression passed across his face. ‘Are you accusing me of eavesdropping?’
Keen to avoid setting him off again, I waved my hand to reassure him. ‘No, no, not at all. I just … I was worried … did you hear our discussion on Saturday night … in the early hours?’
I was desperately trying to think back to that night, the dreamlike quality to those small hours when I’d come back from my pounding of the streets, gone upstairs and told Matthew I’d worked out what he’d done. Figured out his lies. Had Titus still had his music on? Or had I, in the sheer terrible impact of the moment, forgotten about him entirely?
‘Why?’ Titus asked, still looking at me strangely. ‘Were you talking about me?’
Now that was the question. Because, in one way, Titus was exactly who we were talking about. The way he’d survived almost certain death. How he had been saved. And how someone else hadn’t.
I opened my mouth, took a deep breath, and said, ‘If you heard anything, you can tell me.’
Our eyes met and for a moment I thought I saw something within them – a tightening, a sharpening, something hard and resolute, walled-up and impenetrable. Or maybe I just imagined it. When you’re looking back, it’s hard not to let what would happen later influence your view of events. In truth, maybe there’d been nothing in Titus’s eyes to betray any hidden knowledge. In fact, before he’d even had a chance to reply to me, the doorbell had sounded and he’d walked off to answer it.
I watched from the kitchen as Pippa Ashton, mercifully on her own, stepped into the hallway, clocking my presence in an instant then quickly looking away. She looked as if she’d just stepped off a fashion shoot for Burberry, and paused only to hang up her coat.
I pottered about the kitchen for a while, trying not to imagine what was going on upstairs. Part of me felt like I should make my presence known – perhaps choose this moment to execute a Marie Kondo-style excavation of all clothes, shoes, and books in the house, and clatter around noisily with cardboard boxes destined for charity donations in the hope the noise would put Titus and Pippa off. But, of course, I didn’t do this. In fact, all hopes of me going upstairs were dashed when I started my ascent towards the main bedroom to change into my gym attire and I heard a rhythmic thudding and moaning coming from the direction of Titus’s bedroom. I turned on my heel automatically and sat in the kitchen eating reheated lasagne feeling conflicted, cross, and confused. I needed Matthew to deal with this situation. He was my touchstone where Titus was concerned. The man of discipline and decisive action. I opened my phone to take a look at Instagram and saw my follower count had stalled; people were messaging to ask where I’d gone, lots of people debating whether I’d ‘just given up’ or if ‘something bad had happened’.
I was about to type back a bit of a terse response to a few of them when I heard a commotion happening upstairs, a loud banging, like a door being slammed, then someone shouting, ‘Just leave me the fuck alone!’
It was Titus. He was shouting and then the sound of crying reached my ears as a dishevelled Pippa ran down the stairs and started to pull on her coat – back to front to begin with – and cursing at herself when the arms wouldn’t fit.
‘Shit, SHIT!’ she shouted, flapping the thing.
‘Pippa, are you all right?’ I asked, going into the hallway to help her. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘She’s leaving.’ Titus’s voice sounded from the landing, echoing impressively, like some god speaking from above.
Pippa threw one terrified look my way and then flew out of the front door, leaving it crashing behind her.
‘Did you upset her or something?’ I said, turning to Titus. ‘She looked really rattled.’ I started to march up the stairs when I didn’t get a response. ‘So what happened then? Did she find out about your other woman?’
I arrived at his doorway in time to see him pulling on some trainers and a hoodie. ‘I’m going out!’ he barked at me through his tears.
I rubbed at my face, taking in a deep breath, trying not to let this new drama be the thing that caused me to snap. ‘Please, just sit down and tell me what’s wrong.’ He ignored me, shoving my shoulder out the way as he exited the room and ran down the stairs. The front door crashed closed again after him, leaving me wondering what the Maxwell-Foxes next door must be thinking of us.
I considered going after Titus, or getting the car out and crawling the streets of London looking for him. But I didn’t. I went back to the kitchen and sat, silently, my thoughts running around in my head. Morning turned into afternoon, and still I sat. When it reached 2pm, I ate a strawberry yoghurt, tried watching some television, then eventually phoned Titus. To my surprise, he picked up. ‘Hello?’ he said. His voice sounded groggy, as if he’d been asleep.
‘Titus, please tell me where you are. What happened earlier? Are you all right?’
Perhaps I shouldn’t have pressed three demands for answers upon him, because my questions were greeted with silence.
‘Titus, please. I know things are difficult and I wish I could give you more answers but … can you just tell me where you are? Then we can talk a bit and you can explain what upset you.’ When silence greeted this once more, a sudden thought hit me. ‘You haven’t gone to find your dad, have you?’
He let out a mocking laugh. ‘Christ. I’m not in Scotland. I’m at Granny’s. She’s out though.’ There it was again, that strange slurred quality. Had he been drinking?
‘Stay there. I’m coming for you.’
‘No, don’t. What the fuck is the point? Just … leave me alone…’
‘Just stay where you are.’
The call went dead. He’d hung up. Cursing myself for not handling it better, I grabbed my car keys, exited the house and threw myself into the BMW and started the engine. A hold-up due to a broken-down bus outside Peter Jones caused me to start hyperventilating. Why I was panicking so much, I didn’t know, but something in Titus’s tone had troubled me beyond anything the day had thrown up so far. Something so bleak, bitter, furious. It was like he was transforming into a force I had never thought I’d have to reckon with – something unpredictable, filled with rage, the polar opposite to the Titus I had known and cared for and loved like my own son for most of his life. Just as the traffic started to move, my phone rang. ‘Titus?’ I shouted into it without registering the caller ID.
‘No, it’s me,’ said the voice of my mother, calmly. ‘But Titus is here.’
I let out a sigh of relief. ‘Oh, you’re home. That’s … that’s good. Sorry to shout, it’s been … well, things are a bit tricky right now.’
‘As I can imagine,’ my mother said. ‘But at least that’s one thing off your mind. Titus is safe here at Wilton Crescent and you don’t need to worry about him.’
‘I was. Worried, that is. Really worried. He sounded drunk on the phone. I was worried he was doing something stupid or reckless…’
My mother let out a slightly exasperated sigh. ‘Darling, he’s almost a young man. He isn’t ten years old. The drink will wear off and he’ll soon calm down.’
‘So he’s drunk, is he?’ I said, the volume of my voice rising again. ‘At fifteen years old in the middle of the afternoon. And where did he get it from, anyway?’
‘And you were never drunk at fifteen, were you?’ she said, slightly arc
hly. ‘Charles, can you just give the boy some breathing room, just for today? He’ll stay the night here and I’ll drive him over to Chelsea tomorrow morning. How does that sound?’
I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘OK. I’m sorry for getting worked up. It’s just … everything’s been a bit strange…’
‘Ever since you left the Ashtons’s on Saturday?’ she asked. She didn’t sound too inquisitive, but I couldn’t face an interrogation from her about that now.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And a bit before… I can’t really explain it now.’
A large Range Rover hooted behind me; I’d failed to move on a green light. I touched the accelerator and, in a split second, made the decision to continue driving deeper into Belgravia rather than turning back for home. Something odd was happening here and I wanted to have it out with my mother and Titus without delay.
‘We can talk about all this another time,’ my mother continued. ‘Although, darling, perhaps don’t reach out to the Ashtons today, or even any time soon. I think it will be for the best.’
I digested this sentence for a bit before answering. ‘What do you mean?’ I said. ‘Reach out? That’s a strange way to put it. Reach out about what?’ The image of Pippa running down the stairs, her tear-stained face looking at me with fear etched upon it, floated to the surface of my mind. Not quite believing I was now having to ask this question of my own mother, I once again uttered the words that had been most on my mind all day. ‘What’s going on?’
I heard my mother’s slow intake of breath. She held it for a few seconds, then exhaled slowly, buying herself time. ‘Just … give me this time with Titus.’
‘Does this have something to do with Rachel?’
She ignored this question. ‘We’re going to talk some things through. Then I’ll bring him home. And then you and I will go out for a little chat.’