"What happened to him?" asked Terry.
"He died of a heart attack when I was ten." Barry sighed. "It was very sad. My mother changed afterwards. She used to be such a happy person, but now-well-the trouble is I look so like my father-she resents that, I think."
The conversation lapsed and they listened in silence to the pealing bells. Deacon regretted stirring memories, however good the cause. In twenty years he had not rid himself of the terrible sight of his father's blood-spattered study and the shapeless huddle that had once been Francis. Suicide, he thought, was the least forgivable of deaths because there was no time to prepare for the shock of bereavement. Whatever grief he had felt had been subsumed in disgust as he had wiped his father's blood and brains off walls, paintings, shelves, and books. It led him to think of that other suicide. "I wonder why Verity hanged herself," he murmured.
"I don't reckon she did," said Terry. "I reckon it were Billy killed her." He gripped the air as he had done beside the brazier the first time Deacon had met him. "That'd be more than enough to send him off his rocker."
Deacon shook his head. "That's the first thing the police would have looked at. The evidence of suicide must have been very convincing to persuade them otherwise."
"Surely Anne Cattrell's right," said Barry. "If Verity found out by accident that she'd married her husband's murderer, wouldn't that be reason enough to kill herself?"
"I don't see why. She hated Geoffrey." Deacon tapped his pencil against his teeth. "According to Roger Hyde's book, her son thought she was having an affair." He circled Verity's name and drew a line down to James Streeter. "How about that? Think how alike James and Peter were. She'd have been attracted to James on looks alone. It's one explanation for Billy's interest in Amanda's address."
"Meaning he was after revenge?" queried Terry doubtfully. "I don't see that, Mike. First off, he'd be taking revenge on the wrong person, and second off, the dish wouldn't just be cold, it'd be fucking freezing."
Deacon chuckled. He would never tell the boy how much he admired the guts he'd just shown in that handshake with Barry, but it didn't mean the admiration wasn't there. Shades of his relationship with his mother? In the end, perhaps love was stronger for being disguised. Clara had never ceased declaring her love right up until the day she left him. "All right, hotshot, give me a better idea."
"I ain't got one. I just reckon it's all to do with fate. See, Amanda could've talked to any old journalist, but she picked the one who'd get hung up on it enough to keep going. You said yourself you and Billy are linked by fate."
"She didn't pick me," said Deacon. "I picked her, or more accurately my editor picked her and sent me off against my will to interview her. Depending on what she was expecting to achieve, she was either lucky or unlucky that events in Billy's life have faint echoes in mine."
But Terry was not to be dissuaded. "And then there's me. I weren't never going to phone you about Billy, but then I had to because of Walt. And if Mr. Harrison hadn't recognized Tom, I wouldn't have been worried about him dropping me in it, and if you hadn't met old Lawrence and persuaded him to come and hold our hands, then he wouldn't've stuck his nose in about good parenting-" he paused for breath-"and I wouldn't be here now. Plus, Barry wouldn't've got pissed and taken himself off to gawp at Amanda and none of us would know that Nigel was still shafting her. That's fate, that is," he finished triumphantly. "Ain't that right, Barry?"
Barry ducked his head to take off his glasses. He was so tired after the emotional buffeting of the last twenty-four hours that he was finding it increasingly difficult to follow the conversation. "I suppose it depends on whether you think, as my father did, that everything happens accidentally," he said slowly. "He believed there was no purpose to life beyond the furtherance of the species, and that you could either suffer your pointless existence or enjoy it. But to enjoy it you had to plan ahead in order to minimize the threat of unpleasant accidents." He smiled ruefully. "Then he died of a heart attack."
"Do you agree with him?" asked Deacon curiously.
"Oh, no, I agree with Terry. I think fate plays a part in our destinies." He replaced his spectacles and sheltered nervously behind them like an inexperienced knight preparing for battle. "I can't help feeling that it doesn't really matter why Verity hanged herself, or not as far as Amanda Powell is concerned anyway." He put a fat finger on Deacon's chart where it said: "Where was Billy in April 1990?" "This is Billy Blake's fate, not Peter Fenton's. Peter Fenton died in nineteen eighty-eight."
Far away, the bells fell silent as Christmas Day began.
Such strange dreams inhabited Deacon's mind that night. He put them down to the fact that he opted for the sofa in order to have Barry and Terry securely shut in bedrooms with himself as a physical barrier between them. But he sometimes thought afterwards that it was too easy to say it was a bad night, coupled with subconscious fears of homosexual rape scams and memories of his father, that led him to dream about James Streeter covered in blood.
He started out of sleep in a thrashing frenzy at four o'clock in the morning with his mind full of the knowledge that he was James and that he had woken seconds before the final crushing blow that was going to kill him. His face was awash with sweat-blood?-and his heartbeat hammered in the silence of the night. And when the heart began to beat, what dread hand and what dread feet ... Was this a dream? My mother groaned, my father wept, into the dangerous world I leapt ... Who am I? Devourer of thy parent, now thy unutterable torment renews...
It soon became clear that the old adage "too many cooks spoil the broth" was a true one. Barry began patiently enough but, faced with Deacon's and Terry's natural incompetence in the kitchen, he progressed rapidly through irritation to outright tyranny. "My mother would have your head for this," he remarked acidly, pushing Deacon away from a bowl of saturated stuffing and transferring it to the sink.
"How am I supposed to get it right if I don't have a measuring jug?" asked Deacon sulkily.
"You use your intelligence and add the water a little more slowly," said Barry, pressing the soggy mess into a sieve and squeezing out the excess liquid. "It may come as a surprise to you, Mike, but you're not supposed to pour the stuffing into the turkey, you're supposed to stuff it in. That's why it's called stuffing. If you poured it in it would be called pouring."
"All right, all right, I get the message. I'm not a complete idiot."
"I told you he couldn't cook," said Terry self-righteously.
Barry turned his indignation on the boy and lifted a tiny sprout from the meager pile on the draining board. "What's this?" he demanded.
"A sprout."
"Correction. It was a sprout. Now it's a pea. When I said take off the outer leaves, I meant one layer, not two centimeters' worth. We're supposed to be eating these, not swallowing them with a glass of water."
"You need a drink," said Deacon's shaven-headed incubus prosaically. "You aren't half ratty when you're sober."
"A drink?" Barry squeaked, stamping his little feet. "It's nine o'clock in the morning and we haven't even got the turkey in yet." He pointed a dramatic finger at the kitchen door. "Out of here, both of you," he ordered, "or you can forget lunch."
Deacon shook his head. "We can't do that. I've invited Lawrence Greenhill over. He'll be very disappointed if there's nothing to eat." He watched fury rise like a red tide in Barry's face and flapped his hands placatingly as he backed towards the kitchen door. "Don't panic. He's a great guy. You'll like him. I'm sure he won't mind waiting if the meal isn't ready on the dot of one o'clock. Look, here's an idea," he said, as if he was the one who had thought of it. "Why don't Terry and I make ourselves scarce so that you can get on with things? We'll be back at midday to lay the table."