‘No. No, I’m aware of that. I’d keep your distance if I were you.’
She smiled and moved one chair closer. ‘I still can’t tell you where he is.’
‘But can you at least tell me he’s okay?’
‘Define “okay”. He’s a very troubled boy, your Albie.’
‘Yes, clearly.’
‘He’s quite … dark.’
‘I know that—’
‘Very angry. Very, very angry. He has a lot of issues. A lot. With you, I mean. He talks about you a lot.’
‘Does he?’
‘And not in a good way.’
‘Well, that’s why I’m here. I wanted to make amends, Kat, for the scene … well, you were there.’
‘That was cold, Mr P., really cold.’
‘I’m aware of that. Which is why I need to see him.’
‘It’s not as easy as that; it goes a lot further back.’
‘I’m sure it does.’
She narrowed her eyes at me. ‘Did you really glue all his Lego bricks together?’
‘Some. Not all, just some.’
‘Did you tell him he was stupid?’
‘Good God, no! Is that what he told you? That’s not true.’
‘He says he disappoints you.’
‘And that’s not true either—’
‘That he feels like you’re disappointed in him—’
‘Absolutely not true!’
‘He says you and Mrs P. might be splitting up.’
I was not able to deny this.
‘Well, that … might be true, it’s … up in the air. Did his mother tell him that?’
‘He said there wasn’t any need, you haven’t got on for years. But yeah. Yeah, Mrs P. did tell him that.’
I felt a contraction in my chest. ‘That we were splitting up, or that we might be?’
‘That you might be.’
‘Good, good—’
‘But Albie thinks you will.’
‘Oh.’
After a while, I managed: ‘Well, relationships are never easy.’
My observation was a platitude at best, yet it seemed to strike Kat as a remarkable insight. ‘You can say that again!’ she said and started to cry and I found myself placing an arm around her shoulder while the officer at the desk looked on sympathetically. ‘I really loved him, Mr P.’
‘I’m sorry, Kat—’
‘But we were arguing all the time.’ She sniffed, laughed. ‘He’s a moody little bugger, isn’t he?’
‘He can be at times. What did you argue about?’
‘Everything! Politics, sex—’
‘O-kay—’
‘Astrology! We even argued about astrology!’
‘What exactly did he say?’
‘He really went off on one — he said that it was bullshit to think planets could influence human characteristics and anyone who believed it was just dumb …’
‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ I said and proudly thought that’s my boy.
‘He said I was too old for him. I’m only twenty-six, for God’s sake! He said I was smothering him, he wanted some time by himself.’
Her head was on my shoulder now, my arm around her, and I consoled her for some time before making my move. ‘Maybe, Kat, if I talked to him, I could put a word in?’
‘What’s the point, Mr P.? What’s the bloody point?’
‘Nevertheless, if you could just give me the name of the hotel?’
‘He’s not in a hotel.’
‘A hostel, then.’
‘He’s not in a hostel, either.’
‘So where is he, Kat?’
Kat sniffed and cleared her throat. Her nose was running and, rather unusually I thought, she wiped it on my bare arm, leaving a trail of tears and mucus that I could see glinting in the overhead light.
‘Spain.’
‘Spain?’
‘Madrid.’
‘Albie’s in Madrid?’
‘He said he’d had enough of churches, he wanted to see Guernica. There was a cheap flight, he’ll be long gone by now.’
‘Where is he in Madrid, Kat?’
‘I have absolutely no idea.’
Albie was gone. This was neither right nor just, I thought. Because surely, surely you have to succeed, if you give everything you have?
But it seemed that this was not the case and I realised in that moment that I’d lost not just my son, but probably my wife too, and then it was Kat’s turn to console me as I fell entirely to pieces.
I spent the night in a jail cell, though not in a bad way.
Perhaps my breaking down had something to do with it, but after hours of inactivity the staff now sprang into action and I was led away from Kat and taken to a back room where, once I’d calmed down, it was made clear through complicated mime that there would be no formal charges against me. But where would I go? As it was nearly midnight and I had no passport or money, I was shown to a cell by the desk sergeant with the slightly apologetic air of a hotel manager who really has nothing better left. The small windowless room smelt of a lemony disinfectant, reassuring in this context, with a mattress in blue vinyl that was deliciously cool to the touch. The stainless steel toilet had no seat and was closer to the bed than was ideal, and I was wary of the pillow, too. Prison pillows are different from other pillows. But perhaps if I wrapped it in my shirt and tried not to use the toilet, I’d be okay. After all, I had paid upwards of one hundred and forty euros for less comfortable rooms than this and the alternative, sleeping rough on the streets of Siena, held little appeal. So I accepted the bargain happily, on the proviso that the cell door be left ajar.
‘Porta aperta, sì?’
‘Sì, porta aperta.’
And then I was alone.
The great virtue of defeat, once accepted, is that it at least allows one to rest. Hope had kept me awake for too long, and now, untroubled by the fantasy of a happy ending, I was finally able to fall into a sleep that was remarkable for the total absence of dreams.
‘I don’t think our son likes me very much,’ I said to Connie one night in bed.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Douglas. What makes you say that?’
‘I don’t know. The way he cries when you leave the room. Oh, also, he tells me.’
She laughed, and drew closer. ‘He’s going through a mummy phase. All boys, girls too, have it. In a few years’ time you’ll be his idol, you’ll see.’
And so I waited to become his idol.
He started school, and was happy there I think, though often he’d be in bed when I got back from work. If he was asleep, I’d go and watch him, brush his hair back and kiss his forehead. I loved that smell on him, freshly bathed, Pears soap and strawberry toothpaste. If he was awake:
‘Do you want me to read tonight?’
‘No, I want Mummy to read.’
‘Are you sure? Because I’d really like to read to—’
‘Mummy! MUMMY!’
‘Okay, I’ll get Mummy,’ I’d say, then on closing the door, ‘You know you shouldn’t go to bed with wet hair, Albie. You’ll catch flu.’ I’d say this, even though the science on the issue was dubious to say the least. Still I couldn’t help myself, any more than, on holidays, I could resist telling him not to swim immediately after eating in case of cramps. What was it about water against skin that caused the intestines to suddenly spasm and contract? Why should that be? Didn’t matter — it was one of those phrases on the list.
Because throughout my childhood and teenage years I had been compiling a list of banal and irritating remarks that I swore I would never, ever make when I was a parent. All children make this list, and all lists are unique, though no doubt there is considerable overlap. Don’t touch that, it’s dirty! Write your thank-you letters, or no more presents! How can you waste food when people are starving? All through Albie’s childhood, out they tumbled. No more biscuits, you’ll spoil your appetite! Tidy your room! It is WAY past your bedtime! Do NOT come downstairs again! Yes, you do have to have the lights off! What on earth are you afraid of? Don’t cry! You’re acting like a baby. I told you, stop crying. Do. Not. Cry!