The Promise, page 7
The pub was quiet and Dan was able to sit by the window, gazing out at the buses trundling down the High Street, the school-uniform-clad teenagers on their bikes apparently unbothered by the rain, shoppers with umbrellas, people walking along staring at their phones. He pulled out his own phone for something to do and opened Facebook for the first time in weeks. There were several photos posted by Tiggy – most of which seemed to be variations on a theme: her sandwiched between two bronzed, buff and oiled men on a beach – and he snorted faintly with a mixture of affection and regret. There were still loads of unopened condolence messages about Patrick that he hadn’t been able to face reading properly or replying to, including . . . oh God. He actually flinched as he saw her name there. Including one from Rebecca herself. Speak of the devil and she will appear. Before he could think better of it, he clicked on the message: Devastated to hear the news about Patrick, she had typed a fortnight ago. He was always so full of life. Thinking about you and the family.
His jaw tightened and he had to put the phone down quickly, because a flood of emotions threatened to overwhelm him. So many feelings. Too many feelings. Don’t think about it, he ordered himself. Don’t think about her. He’d become so adept at blocking out painful thoughts in the last month, like a blanket thrown over a birdcage; he hadn’t so much as peeked beneath it. But today . . .
Maybe it was having just been back to Windermere Road, feeling the past put its hand on his shoulder, but it wasn’t so easy today. Suddenly he found himself clicking through to Rebecca’s page, needing to know what she was doing with her life. They had split up three years ago, and although Dan had steadfastly avoided finding out too much about her since then, he’d been unable to miss the headline fact of her remarriage last summer to some broad-shouldered alpha male called Rory. At the time Dan had only been able to bear a few glances at the photos, but Rory looked the sort of man who flew helicopters for fun and saved children’s lives in between sealing massive global deals during office hours. He definitely would have one of those massive expensive watches, if he could find one big enough to go around his thick strong wrist, of course. ‘It’s okay, I don’t care – I’m over her too,’ Dan had declared to anyone who would listen during an eight-pint bender on her wedding day, shortly before everything got really messy and blurry.
He glanced at the screen again now and saw that her most recent update was a cryptic one. Big day tomorrow! Cross your fingers for me. Ugh, he thought, closing the app immediately. She was probably having an interview for CEO of the world this time, for even more money and status. Amazing celebratory holidays with Rory and all their high-flying friends. His face burned as he felt rejected all over again. He certainly wouldn’t be crossing anything for her, he thought.
Outside, the shower had already eased off and the pavement glinted damply as the sun sent tentative rays slicing through the pigeon-grey clouds. A bus had to brake hard at a distracted cyclist, issuing a disapproving honk, while a cluster of women with prams walked along together, all wearing Lycra and enormous colourful trainers, their ponytails swinging behind them in unison.
Then Dan realized that Patrick’s work phone was ringing from his jacket pocket and scrabbled to pull it out. Pain In Arse, read the screen, and he let out a muffled groan. Sometimes he couldn’t help thinking the universe had it in for him.
‘So how did you get on? What were you making today?’
Coffee finished, a demanding tenant temporarily placated and all thoughts of Rebecca firmly stashed back in a mental folder marked Do Not Disturb, Dan and Ethan were heading back towards Kew. As before, though, the conversation, like the traffic, was not exactly flowing freely, although another furious concerto currently thundered from the speakers.
‘It’s a group project,’ Ethan said, all shrugs and mumbles.
‘Of . . . ?’ Come on, kid, give me something to work with here, Dan thought, trying not to sigh as he turned up the fan heater. Ethan had seemed so pleased on Friday when Dan had offered him a lift. What had changed since then?
‘It’s a person. Made of metal,’ Ethan replied, as if long sentences were beyond him. Even his body language seemed closed-off, unwilling, Dan thought, glancing across: the boy’s knees were turned towards the door, away from Dan, as if he didn’t want to look at his uncle. Had something happened at the club? Was someone picking on him, maybe, or giving him a hard time?
‘Everything all right?’ he asked as they joined the South Circular, along with half the vehicles in the capital, by the look of things. It was a stupid question, he realized, as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Of course Ethan wasn’t all right. When would Dan remember to stop relying on such inappropriate and banal conversational prompts? ‘Listen, I know no one will ever take the place of your dad,’ he said, ‘but you can talk to me, okay? Think of me as . . . I dunno, as a substitute for him, yeah?’
Dan had to overtake a van in the next moment, so couldn’t be entirely sure, but he thought Ethan might have muttered, ‘Puts the “tit” in “substitute”’ or something along those lines.
Startled, Dan looked over at him again. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘Just say it, whatever it is.’
There was a loaded pause. ‘It’s about when Dad died,’ the boy eventually mumbled, looking down at his own hands.
Ah. Shit. They were going there, were they? ‘What about it?’ Dan asked, feeling as if he had stepped onto a tightrope. Don’t look down. Keep breathing. Baby steps.
‘I heard Mum saying . . . Well, nobody’s really explained what happened,’ Ethan said, the words tumbling out in a rush. His usually pale face flushed and a hard edge appeared in his voice. ‘And I heard Mum say that she blamed you, basically. For Dad dying. She said it was your fault. And I just wondered . . . I mean, was it? Is there something I don’t know?’ His hands curled into fists. ‘Because I need to know,’ he finished gruffly.
Dan’s mouth was dry suddenly. If Patrick could see his boy here now, fierce and brave, asking this really tough question of his uncle, he would be so proud of him, Dan thought with a pang. But in the meantime, what was he supposed to say in reply? Moreover, why did they have to launch into such a difficult conversation on the heaving South Circular, where he was stop-starting along in first gear? ‘It was an accident,’ he began. ‘Your dad . . .’ Then he hesitated, wary of saying too much. ‘What did your mum tell you about that night?’
‘That he fell into the river and drowned.’
‘Yes.’ Up floated Patrick’s body from Dan’s nightmares: pale and bloated, eyes half-eaten by the fish, weed streaking his dark hair. He hadn’t actually seen Patrick on the mortuary slab himself, it had been poor Zoe who had gone to identify the body, but his imagination had filled in the gaps with vivid enough detail. ‘That’s what happened. Unfortunately.’
‘So . . . why does she think it was your fault?’ Ethan’s knee was jiggling with the stress of the conversation, his voice low but tense. Fists still clenched on the knees of his school trousers, as if poised to start raining vengeful blows at any moment. ‘I mean, you didn’t push him in, did you?’
‘No! Christ, is that what you’ve been thinking? No! Absolutely not. I didn’t push him in. I wasn’t even there.’
Ethan’s shoulders went limp as he exhaled audibly. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Sorry. But why does Mum think—’
‘Because . . .’ Now they were getting to the nitty-gritty. ‘Because he was supposed to be staying at my place that evening, not walking home on his own.’
Ethan took a moment to digest this. Uncle not a murderer. No need for filial vengeance. Stand down. Wait, though – another question. ‘So why didn’t he? Stay at your place, I mean.’
And here it was: the very point Dan’s conscience had been grappling with again and again, endlessly, every bloody day, since Patrick had disappeared. ‘Because . . .’ Bile rose in his throat and he forced himself to remember the scene – the two of them stumbling out of the pub, worse for wear, Dan angrily striding ahead, telling Patrick he should go home because he wasn’t welcome; he didn’t want to see him. How his brother had shrugged and walked away, leaving Dan bristling all over with impotent rage. Typical! Patrick couldn’t even argue properly, just when Dan really needed to have it out with him.
His fingers tightened on the steering wheel as he tried to find adequate words in reply to Ethan’s question. ‘We had an argument,’ he mumbled eventually, the same weak line he’d bleated to Zoe, to his parents, to everyone else who’d asked. ‘You know the way that brothers do? Things got said in the heat of the moment.’ He risked a look at Ethan, whose expression was tight and pinched, hard to read. He didn’t look won over by his uncle’s defence, that was for sure, although the ‘brothers’ bit would surely have struck a chord. ‘Look, I wish to God I could change things, rewind that evening and do it all differently, but I can’t,’ he said, the words bursting out with unexpected earnestness. ‘But it was nobody’s fault. Just one of those terrible, unlucky things that happens.’
The music had reached a crescendo, fittingly enough. Ethan said nothing. Dan was pretty sure he didn’t care about luck, or whose fault it was; he only cared that he no longer had a dad, that his world had been shattered one dreadful February night. I will make this better, Dan vowed to his nephew in his head. I promise you. I will never stop trying to make this better for you, for the rest of my life and yours.
Chapter Six
The following morning Zoe scrolled idly through a news website on her phone as she sat in the doctor’s waiting room. Yet another sleepless night and she was starting to feel as if she was losing the grip on her sanity. Her eyes were sore, her brain jangled; her entire body felt heavy and cumbersome. She was fantasizing about sleeping pills that would knock her out, send her into oblivion. I need help, she imagined saying to the doctor when it was finally her turn to be seen. I can’t go on like this. A few days ago I burst into tears on the pavement and had to be rescued by a kind shopkeeper. What can I do? When will I start feeling normal again? She hoped she wouldn’t embarrass herself by crying, but she couldn’t rule it out. Her tear ducts seemed permanently on standby these days, always ready for an impromptu weep.
‘Do you want me to come over at the weekend?’ her mum had asked on the phone last night, sounding anxious, as Zoe poured her heart out. God, it was tempting to say yes. There was a part of her that longed to retreat into the sanctuary of her mother’s arms very much – to hide her face against her, like she’d done as a little girl, prone to shyness – but she’d said a regretful no in the end. She had to manage, for the sake of the children, take charge of the situation rather than ducking responsibility. Besides, if she leaned too hard on her mum, she might never be able to get up again.
‘Mari O’Connor,’ she heard a woman saying at the reception desk just then and turned her head to see a mum she knew from school standing there. Oh, great. Now no doubt there would be a sympathetic How-are-you? conversation and Zoe would not be able to reach the end of the first sentence without losing her dignity. She bent over her phone, hoping Mari wouldn’t notice her in the corner, praying that she would be called in for her appointment now, to avoid any awkwardness.
She heard Mari’s footsteps and smelled her strong jasmine perfume, but no such How-are-you? was forthcoming. Glancing across the small room, she was just in time to see the other woman notice her then quickly turn her head away. Zoe felt her hackles rise. This happened a lot – people pretending they hadn’t seen her because they felt uncomfortable around a grieving widow – and in many ways it was even worse than the irritating How-are-you?s. And guess what, she felt pretty bloody uncomfortable every minute of the day. ‘It’s only because they don’t know what to say,’ Clare had soothed when Zoe moaned to her about it. ‘And there is nothing good to say, really, other than I’m so sorry this has happened to you – how can I help?’
‘So why don’t they say that then? Rather than crossing the road to avoid me, as if I’m some kind of plague victim? Like I won’t notice them slinking away, the cowards!’
She was sick of people shunning her out of their own weakness. Okay, so ten seconds ago she might not have wanted any kind of conversation, but now, contrarily, she felt compelled to force one. ‘Hi, Mari,’ she said pointedly across the busy waiting room. I see you.
Mari looked up at once, guilt all over her face. She had strawberry-blonde hair and the porcelain sort of skin that showed up even a faint blush in full fiery Technicolor. ‘Sorry, I was miles away,’ she said, which was such a transparent lie that Zoe had to struggle to hold back her sardonic snort. ‘How are you? We all miss Patrick so much.’
‘Zoe Sheppard?’ called the doctor just then, appearing in the doorway, thank God.
‘Bye, Mari,’ said Zoe, getting up from her seat and walking away, her nerve-ends bristling. We all miss Patrick so much indeed, she thought crossly. It was Mari’s husband, John, who’d been friends with Patrick; not Mari, who barely even knew him. Some people simply loved to cash in on another person’s unhappiness, though, and appropriate it as their own. She had a sudden flash of memory from the funeral: Mari sobbing there at the back of the church, thin and beautiful in her black mourning dress. How dare she? Zoe thought now, following the doctor into her room and sitting down. Shedding those fake tears, which were not even rightfully hers to shed!
Dr Gupta looked at Zoe’s notes on the computer, then back at Zoe. Here came that professional compassion, thought Zoe, noting the doctor’s tilted head and concerned gaze. Any second now.
‘So, Zoe, how are you?’ said Dr Gupta. Bingo. ‘How can I help you today?’
‘There. Can you hear it? Just there.’
Over in Shepherd’s Bush, Dan had, with some trepidation, gone to see Rosemary, the eighty-something-year-old woman who had been the bane of his brother’s life, by all accounts. Having expected to be confronted with a sour-faced old gorgon in her lair, he had been surprised at the small, rather sweet-looking lady who answered the door, dressed in a crisply ironed ivory blouse with a tweedy skirt, tendrils of long white hair spilling from a chignon. Her lipstick was immaculate and he could detect a faint floral perfume from her as she walked across the living room.
‘Do you hear it?’ she asked as he followed her. ‘The mouse?’
‘Mrs—’ He had forgotten her last name. He definitely mustn’t call her Mrs Pain In Arse. ‘Rosemary – if I may,’ he went on. ‘I think it’s a squeaky floorboard rather than a mouse.’ He moved his foot up and down on the salmon-pink rug, demonstrating. ‘See?’
She crossed her arms across her narrow frame and for a moment he thought she was going to put up an argument – she had been absolutely insistent on the phone that there was a rodent problem – but then her shoulders sagged and she looked down at the carpet. ‘Oh.’
‘I can see why you thought it was a mouse,’ he said quickly, not wanting her to feel embarrassed. ‘It’s a very mousy sort of squeak.’ He pressed his toe down again, nodding at the sound.
‘I suppose it’ll mean the carpet coming up,’ Rosemary said, pursing her lips. Was it Dan’s imagination or did she seem pleased at the prospect? ‘You’ll want to fix it, won’t you? I mean, in case it gets worse.’
‘Um . . .’ replied Dan, who didn’t really see the point of going to so much trouble for a squeaky floorboard. ‘Well, I’m not sure it’s an emergency, but—’
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she told him, whisking away before he could complete his sentence. ‘While you’re here, you can look at the kitchen sink. There was a funny smell coming from it the other day.’
So much for this being a quick visit, Dan thought, an hour or so later, having drunk two coffees and repeatedly refused a third slice of fruitcake. As soon as he fixed – or discounted – one ‘problem’, another would mysteriously arise. ‘Oh, you are clever,’ she praised him, when he changed the light bulb of her bedside lamp. ‘Thank you, dear,’ she cried in apparent delight, when he replaced the washer on the bathroom tap. And then, just as he was standing up to go – no, really, he absolutely had to leave now – she caught him off-guard by saying, ‘So where’s Patrick anyway? Not that I’m complaining. You’re much nicer. But is he on holiday or something?’
Poleaxed, Dan sank back into his chair. He’d assumed she already knew. ‘Oh,’ he said, swallowing hard. It felt as if there was a sticky paste of fruitcake behind his teeth, gumming up his entire mouth. ‘He died,’ he managed to say. ‘I’m his brother. Sorry, I thought I’d said.’ He ran his hand through his hair. ‘I’ve lost track of who knows and . . .’
She froze, aghast at her own faux pas, and they both sat there for a moment looking at one another. ‘Goodness gracious,’ she said eventually, her eyes widening in sympathy. ‘I’m very sorry. How did he . . . ? I mean, you don’t have to tell me, of course, but . . . was it sudden? It must have been. I only saw him – well, last month. I did wonder why he wasn’t answering my calls, but thought he might be on holiday or perhaps he’d lost his phone or . . . Good heavens. What happened?’
That question again. Twice in two days. Dan thought of Ethan’s guarded face, the tension shown by his knotted fingers, his clenched body language. Still, Dan wasn’t obliged to disclose anything to Patrick’s tenant in the way that he had to Patrick’s son. ‘It was a tragic accident,’ he told Rosemary, not meeting her eye. He pushed his chair back and got to his feet. ‘Very sad. Now if you’ll excuse me, I really do need to—’
‘And him a family man, too,’ she exclaimed, her hand flying up to her mouth. ‘I’m very sorry to hear this news, Daniel. Very sorry indeed. Patrick’s been extremely good to me over the years. Very fair. Had a bit of a temper on him now and then, obviously, but . . .’ She checked herself. Don’t speak ill of the dead now. ‘You must all be devastated. His poor children. And his parents! How terrible to lose a child. They must be heartbroken.’
