22
Sunday
On my way through Hyde Park, I see spare food left on the bench. I carefully smooth the aluminium wrapping out before folding it into my pockets. The clean parts of the sandwiches I eat in a bite or two.
When I pass the children’s play area, I feel a thud as I remember that this is where Squire attacked me. I wonder whether the police will have done their investigations by now. And what has Squire told the police? There’s no value in him lying to them, but value has multiple meanings when you live as Squire and I do.
I stay in the Green Zone and navigate the whole of Hyde Park, but the way I have carved up London into zones feels too flimsy now. It’s always been quite plastic, bending as money changed the character of the places, but now after what has happened, with Squire and with the murdered woman at 42B, I have to reorder these zones.
The grass’s damp scent reaches me, but I shrug it off. Memories encourage ghosts. And even as I think it I feel Rory catch my hand as he used to when he was small. He would catch it and run, wanting me to outrun him and pull him along so that he could go faster than his body would allow. Little, beautiful Rory.
And then we grew up.
He called me a few times when he got the job in London but it never worked. When we spoke as adults we became children again. Perhaps that was the problem. Ultimately, we were condemned to live in an imperfectly remembered and therefore imperfect past.
Finally, he persuaded me to meet him for coffee in the same week that Grace moved out. There was a new patisserie on Fleet Street. Doo-wop played through speakers in the wall in a gentle hum.
‘How’s Grace?’ he said, once our coffees arrived in delicate china cups, and I lifted my chin to give him a look but he didn’t look back. He looked worn through.
‘She’s fine,’ I said and then stopped. ‘Actually, she’s not,’ I said then. ‘Well, she is, but we’re not. She’s moved out.’
He stopped stirring. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ He ran a hand through his hair, messy and youthful. His eyes, though, were older. Shadows played beneath them. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes,’ I said. He studied me and was about to speak when I cut him off. ‘I went to see Dad,’ I said.
He nodded as if to himself. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s why I asked you to meet me.’ He looked at me then, straight in the eye. ‘I know what you said to him.’
I felt my stomach drop.
‘I know what you said to him, Xander.’
‘What? What did I say to him?’ I said, feeling my temper rise.
‘You said he’d burn for what he did.’
‘I don’t know what that means, Rory,’ I said, dropping sugar lumps into my cup. ‘Because it means nothing. He’s got dementia. Even he doesn’t know what he means any more.’
‘He was lucid. Why would you say that to him?’ he said, staring. But there was no anger there, only sadness.
I sipped my coffee and looked at him. ‘That can’t be the reason you brought me here.’
His coffee remained undrunk.
‘He told me, Xander.’
‘He doesn’t know what he’s saying, Rory.’
‘He did. And I am sorry,’ he said, and I watched as tears began to track down his cheeks.
‘I’m not sitting here for this,’ I said. I got up to leave. He took me by the sleeve, and then stood himself, pulling me into an embrace.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said again. His shoulders heaved and slumped as he sobbed. I returned him to his seat.
‘Sit. It’s okay,’ I said. ‘You were seven. It’s okay.’
‘But I didn’t even see it, Xander,’ he said. ‘I didn’t even notice.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘He loved me. I knew he loved me. But I thought he loved us both, Xander. Equally. But now?’
‘But now what?’ I said. ‘Nothing’s changed. He still loved us. Still loved me.’ And then after a pause, I said, ‘It was drink. The whisky. When he had that much of it, it took him over. It wasn’t him. Not really.’ I said it for us both, whether it was true or not.
He wiped his face with his sleeve and as it came away, I saw him for a second as he was when he was a boy. Flushed and enquiring. Innocent.
‘I want you to know,’ he said then, holding my arms across the table. ‘He didn’t touch me.’
‘I know,’ I said.
And then I saw him collapse. From inside the eyes, collapsing all the way down.
23
Sunday
There are tears running down my face. I am in the park still and I am crying, but now there is laughter breaking through. It isn’t funny but I can’t cling on to the present and I need to. Has my time at Seb’s house done something to me, blunted the sharpness that I had and had to have to stay alive outside? The day is ending and the best thing to do now is to wait out the night somewhere close. And then, just like that, those two imperatives chime as one. Tonight, I’ll sleep out.
There was a man once who built an underground home here in the park. He collected cement and timber and dug ten feet down into the soil in a copse and made a bunker. The rumour was that he stayed undetected for ten years. It never crossed my mind to do that. The point for me was not to be enclosed – even amongst all this space.
I head out of the park and disassemble the strategy I have decided upon. To bypass the alarm I need a key or I need Ebadi to neglect to set it. I don’t have a key and I can’t wait for him to forget his alarm. So this is the only thing I can do. The woman died cruelly. My mind wants to hold me responsible for some part of that cruelty and to punish me. But my psyche hasn’t understood that about me – that I accept the cruelty. The cruelty was always there and has never been punished.
It was an act of cruelty on my part to make Rory suffer. There are no loose, unguarded comments. I knew what I was doing when I said that to him and what the consequences were. Suffering. It was deliberately inflicted. At some visceral level I wanted him to feel it.
But I misjudged how quickly he would fall.
There are no people left in the park. The wardens have begun their rounds in their little green cars and have shepherded everyone out and are now heading north to the other end of the park.
The cold is like a soaked cloak around my shoulders. I draw my lapels close and hurry out of the park. Once I cross the road I look for somewhere I can spend the night away from people and traffic. There is a lamp post with a white-painted cycle tethered to it and dead flowers in its spokes. Some poor sod died on this grubby road on his or her way somewhere before a whole life and all its arrangements was brutally stamped out.
I think of Rory until a drop of rain brings me to myself. Finding a place to bed down for even just one night requires careful thought. I avoid anywhere within a throw of a pub and I avoid high-traffic areas. And then to escape the worst of the weather, I look for a narrow alleyway or small side street that is sheltered from the rain – and then sit there for a few minutes. Some of these alleys are wind tunnels and it’s not always easy to identify them immediately. And then there is the question of supplies. The deep recess of an office block is one thing, but without insulation it’s not much use. I start by finding a convenience shop with bedding – sleeves of cardboard waiting to be taken away – and then I search for the right ‘room’ in which to lay it down.
This shop is ideal. There are long sheets of cardboard propped up against a commercial bin. I select the driest pieces and also grab the end of a large roll of foil – just enough for a few strips. I have been here before, I think. There are large recycling bins at the entrance to the nearest alleyway, which I remember has out-of-date food from the shop. In the alley I lay the sheeting down in layers against a wall before rolling myself into the leaves.