Driftnet (20 page)

‘Will you lock
up?’ she said wearily.

‘Morag?’

‘Went to bed
earlier. Too much champagne.’

There was still
no sign of Jonathan.

‘I’ll leave the
big lock off. He’s not usually so late,’ Edward said, switching off
the lights in the sitting room.

They climbed
the stairs wearily. For once Edward didn’t feel like celebrating
his victory by making love. He hoped that being an MP wasn’t going
to reduce his sex drive.

Jonathan locked
the front door and went into the sitting room. The luminous dial of
the clock on the mantelpiece showed four-thirty. Outside, the lawn
spotlights cut a strip across the grass and bathed the front of the
house in just enough light for him to see the clutter of empty
glasses and filled ashtrays.

Amy hadn’t been
here tonight. She would never have left a mess like this. Thinking
about Amy made Jonathan want to cry. Amy always believed the best
of him, even when she knew the truth.

Jonathan found
a vodka bottle. He poured himself a shot and took it over to the
couch. The dog must have heard him come in because he appeared at
the door and plumped himself across his feet.

The warmth and
comfort of the body leaning on him made the lump in Jonathan’s
throat grow so that he thought he would choke. Tears slid down his
face. His arms were shamefacedly agonisingly sore where they had
been twisted back with the belt. He swallowed the vodka straight.
It seared his swollen tongue and bit his bruised throat. He gagged,
reliving Simon’s relentless onslaught on his mouth.

He gathered a
cushion in his arms and cradled it, rolling sideways onto the
couch, his knees curled up, while the dog whined and licked his
face.

Chapter
30

Neil pressed
the buttons, then moved the receiver to his other hand, put his arm
round Chrissy and pulled her close. The side of his face was still
swollen and bruised. Chrissy touched the puffy skin with her lips
and he squeezed her shoulders.

‘Maybe he isn’t
there?’ she said.

Neil shook his
head as someone on the other end lifted the receiver.

‘I want to
speak to Jim Connelly.’

Chrissy heard
the woman tell Neil her husband was still asleep.

‘I have to
speak to him. Tell him it’s important.’

‘What the hell
d’you want?’ rasped Connelly. If it’s something about the paper,
you should have rung the office.’

‘I didn’t want
the office.’

Chrissy watched
the nerve twitch on the side of Neil’s cheek. He was concentrating
and she knew standing upright for so long was giving him pain.

‘Just shut up
and listen,’ he said.

Neil gave
Connelly enough information to get his interest, then he set up a
meeting. Chrissy heard a grunt of agreement. Neil was right. The
newspaper man was hooked.

After the call,
Neil slumped, as if his strength had given out.

‘You need to
lie down,’ she told him.

He nodded at
her, and for once he didn’t have a cocky reply.

****

When Edward
swung his feet out of bed the next morning, the floor rose to meet
him. He steadied himself on the bedpost, cursed and reached for his
dressing gown. His head beat like a drum, and his stomach was
heaving as if he was on a Channel crossing. He stood and waited
until the floor stopped tilting.

As he headed
for the shower, he tried to work out how much drink he’d had. It
didn’t usually catch up on him like this. It hadn’t seemed so much
at the time, but he’d been talking and he hadn’t had a lot to
eat.

He was paying
for it now.

He turned the
shower knob to power. The needles beat down, but it didn’t help the
pain in his head. He promised himself some strong coffee and two
headache tablets. Then he would be fine.

As he went
downstairs, Fiona called out for him to check Jonathan’s room.

‘I didn’t hear
him come in,’ she said.

Edward groaned,
(but not loud enough for Fiona to hear), and climbed back up the
stairs. Jonathan’s door was tight shut. Edward hated Jonathan to
lock his door.

What if there
was a fire, he asked himself. He’d said it a million times. It
hadn’t made any difference.

If he’s been
smoking in there, and there was no point in him denying he did it,
there was even more chance of a fire.

Edward knocked
firmly. Nothing. He tried again, harder this time.

‘Jonathan,’ he
called loudly. ‘Answer me, Jonathan. I know you’re in there.’

The ensuing
silence was like a grater on Edward’s nerves. This time there was
strength behind his anger. He pushed at the door and it rattled
under his weight, then stopped against the silly bolt the boy had
put on.

‘Stupid thing,’
Edward spat.

It was amazing
how much the presence of that little bolt infuriated Edward. A
little bolt that split his son’s life from his own. Shut him out.
His resentment was making him feel nauseous. He didn’t have time
for this. Not this morning. The presence of the bolt insulted him
deeply and he had a desire to throw himself against the door with
all his might (and fuck his headache). But he resisted the
impulse.

He would keep
his temper, he told himself. The door was perfect apart from that
pretend-brass-bolt. If he tore it off the door, it would harm the
wood.

Edward knocked
again.

‘For Christ’s
sake Jonathan. All you have to do is shout, then I can tell your
mother you’re alive.’

Silence.

Edward tutted
loudly (much as his own mother used to do), and let go the handle.
He was fed up with this. If the door was locked at least that meant
that Jonathan was in there. He called up to Fiona to tell her just
that, then headed down to the smell of fresh coffee.

While Edward
was at breakfast, half a dozen calls came through, including one
from Ian Urquhart. Everyone was delighted, Ian said. It was as if
the Party had won a General Election. Mind you, thought Edward,
winning a Tory seat north of the border felt much like that.

After mutual
congratulations were over, Ian asked tentatively if Edward was
willing to do a couple of interviews. Ian was savvy enough to
expect him to be nursing a hangover.

Of course he
was willing, Edward told him tartly, but it depended who it was to
be with.

‘Jim Connelly
of the Evening Post?’

Edward made a
face. He would have to feel a whole lot better, before he was up to
a meeting with Connelly.

Fiona and Morag
finally appeared at midday. Edward was dealing with correspondence
at the kitchen table.

‘You don’t look
so good. Hangover?’ Fiona suggested sweetly.

He looked up
from his letters. ‘I look a damn sight better than she does,’ he
retorted.

Morag was
slumped over a plate of cornflakes, looking nothing like the
livewire of the previous night. She didn’t even acknowledge the
comment.

‘I have an
interview here at two o’clock,’ said Edward testily. ‘I hope she’ll
be tidied away by then.’

‘Don’t worry,
dear. I’ll make sure she’s organised,’ Fiona promised him. ‘No sign
of Jonathan yet?’

‘No.’

Edward went
back to his letters and Fiona gave an exasperated sigh.

‘I think I’ll
go for my shower now,’ she said.

Edward thought
she was going to leave him in peace, but it was not to be.

‘Do go and get
him up and make him take a shower. Tell him to put on something
half decent. You don’t want the press to think you’ve got an
imbecile for a son. Do you?’

Edward watched
his wife disappear up the stairs.

If they had an
imbecile for a son, he thought, surely it was Fiona’s fault? He was
sure he’d read somewhere, that a boy got his brains or lack of them
from his mother.

He climbed the
stairs again, determined to get Jonathan’s door open this time,
even if he had to take it off the hinges. Fiona could moan about
the mess if she wanted to.

The music was
faint, but now that his head had calmed down, Edward was certain he
could hear it. Jonathan must have his earphones in, and be
completely oblivious to his shouts.

‘Jonathan, I’m
coming in now Jonathan.’

Edward lowered
his shoulder and gave a good sharp push. The cheap bolt sprung off
and hit the polished wooden floor. The door swung open.

The room was in
darkness. Edward hated the stale smell of cigarettes. When he’d
halved Jonathan’s allowance, he’d hoped to put an end to that
particular habit.

Edward walked
briskly over to the window and drew the curtains. Sunlight swamped
the room. That didn’t do much for his fragile head. He reached for
the catch, throwing open the window with a resounding ‘there,’ and
turned towards the bed, ready to do battle. It was just as he’d
thought. The little idiot had fallen asleep with the earphones in
and the compact disc set to play over and over again.

Edward reached
for the sleeping form, pulled out the earplugs and threw back the
covers. Jonathan didn’t move.

He was lying on
one side, still wearing last night’s clothes, knees pulled up
against his chest, hands held protectively between them. His son’s
foetal position stopped the angry words in Edward’s throat.
Jonathan was fifteen years old, but lying like that he looked about
five.

Edward touched
the shoulder gently, then with more strength. Fear chilled his
guts. An arm, suddenly released, fell onto the bed. Now Jonathan’s
head was turned towards him. Edward stared uncomprehendingly at his
son’s face. The lips were transparent, pulled back across the teeth
in a grimace, the blue eyelids shut; and under Edward’s terrified
touch, the boy’s skin was cold and slippery as a slug.

Edward rolled
him over and shook him harder consumed with panic.

‘Jonathan! Wake
up Jonathan!’

He let the head
fall back and stumbled to the door, the word ‘ambulance’ forming
somewhere in his throat.Fiona met him on the landing. Sounds had
come out of his mouth, strangled and incomprehensible. Fiona had
come running from the bedroom. Behind her Morag stood, her hand
over her mouth. That didn’t stop her hideously piercing scream.

When Edward
opened his front door four hours later, Amy came hurrying out of
the kitchen to meet him, ashen-faced. It was strange, thought
Edward dully, how he had never thought about Amy before, not
properly, not about her place in their lives.

When she asked
how Jonathan was, Edward was suddenly sorry that he hadn’t let her
know. She had stayed here worrying all the time.

‘He’s still
weak,’ he said. ‘They pumped his stomach but they’re still
monitoring him for liver damage. The paracetemol does that, you
know,’ he explained in a voice resembling the one the young doctor
had used to him.

‘Dearie me,
dearie me. The poor lamb.’

Amy was beside
herself. He had always thought of Amy as the cleaner. Someone to
give the kids their tea when Fiona and he were late back. Someone
to child-mind when they were going out.

She was crying
now, the paper hanky soggy and disintegrating in her hands.

‘There, there,’
he said stupidly.

Amy had been
with the family since Jonathan was born. Fiona had employed the odd
nanny here and there; when she went to her Bridge parties, her
tennis club, the health club, but it had never worked. The kids
just went down to the kitchen, to Amy. Amy had looked after them,
always been pleased to see them. Amy, Edward realised with a start,
had been their mother.

‘Come on Amy.’
He laid his hand awkwardly on her shoulder. ‘Why don’t you make us
both a cup of tea?’

She stood up,
glad to do something.

‘Yes, yes of
course, Mr Stewart. I expect you’re hungry. I’ve kept a nice bit of
lamb for you.’

Edward followed
her through the hall to the kitchen. He suddenly didn’t want to be
in the sitting room alone. The kitchen was warm and comfortable.
The big maroon oil fired range beat a lazy heat around the
room.

‘You sit down,
Mr Stewart. I’ll get your tea.’

Edward nodded
and sat in the chair next to the stove while Amy bustled about,
checking the side oven for his lamb, pulling the big kettle over
the hot plate. The dog crept out of its basket and came over and
licked his hand. Edward suddenly wanted to cry. It was an
unfamiliar feeling.

Amy set him a
place at the table and ushered him over. While he ate, he told her
that Fiona was staying at the hospital and that Morag had gone off
with her boyfriend for something to eat.

‘Oh, I should
have said, Mr Urquhart phoned.’ Amy looked apologetic.

‘You
didn’t...’

Amy shook her
head.

Edward nodded
gratefully. ‘I’ll ring him as soon as I’ve decided what we say
about this.’

‘And a Mr
Connelly from the Evening Post.’

Edward pulled
himself together. ‘Right. I’ll get back to him after I’ve
eaten.’

The food made
him feel better. Edward drank his tea and pushed the plate and cup
aside. ‘I’d better go and sort things out,’ he said.

Amy lifted the
plate and nodded.

The sitting
room was pristine again, the way Edward liked it. Amy had picked
some roses and it was permeated with their light perfume. The
order, the calm, the cleanliness of it all was confounded by the
memory of what had happened.

It made Edward
long for it to be yesterday again. Yesterday, when life was sweet.
He replayed the previous evening in his head, but this time
Jonathan was with them, chatting to people, being pleasant,
helpful. He saw himself, putting an affectionate arm about his
son’s shoulders, introducing him to people.

In the hospital
corridor, waiting for them to finish emptying his son’s stomach,
Edward had felt furious. What was Jonathan thinking about? It was
so messy and unnecessary.