Gregory's Game (3 page)

‘And isn't it?'

Patrick shook his head. ‘No, not really. I mean, I know it's only been a couple of weeks but so far it's all been about analysing our process and mapping our route to uni using sticky tape and toilet paper.'

Gregory laughed. ‘I can see how that might be annoying,' he said. ‘But it might be a good thing. Make you think about things in a new way?'

Patrick's eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out if Gregory was serious. He shook his head. ‘I guess,' he said. ‘But what if you know why you paint? If you know why you make drawings? If you figured that out a long time ago?' He shook his head again. ‘It's like, if someone wanted you to analyse your process, what would you tell them?'

Gregory considered. ‘I'd probably tell them they really didn't want to know,' he said. ‘Either that or show them how to field strip an AK 47.'

Patrick laughed, then swallowed about half of his coffee. ‘The cookies are good here. You want one?' He got up and crossed to the counter, feeling in his jacket pocket for change.

He really isn't happy, Gregory thought. And maybe he was right. Some people were just meant to get on with doing what it was they were born to do. For some, their path was clear, always had been. It had been for Gregory.

Patrick returned with plates and cookies. Gregory eyed the confection. It was studded with chocolate and little flecks of green that closer inspection revealed to be pistachio nuts. ‘I don't know if I eat cookies,' he said. ‘I think I might be a biscuit sort of guy'

‘Try it and see.'

Obediently, Gregory picked up the brown disc and broke it into pieces. It was good, he conceded, though a little too sweet for his taste. He was very aware of Patrick watching him, a smile tweaking at the boy's lips.

‘Think you'll stick it out?' Gregory asked. ‘University, I mean.'

Patrick shrugged. ‘I promised Dad I'd give it until Christmas. He says I'm bound to find it strange and a lot of people drop out in the first term. I'm making friends and so on, so I suppose that's something. Dad doesn't want me to close any doors till I've given things a fair chance.'

‘Your dad is a sensible man,' Gregory said.

Patrick nodded. ‘I know. So,' he went on, ‘what are you really here for? I mean it is good to see you, but I'm guessing you must have another reason.'

Gregory stirred what was left of his coffee and ate another piece of chocolate cookie. Patrick watched. Now he was here, Gregory wasn't really sure he actually did have a valid reason. It had been impulse as much as anything – another first for Gregory. He was not reckoned to be a man given to whim. He decided that the truth was the best approach.

‘I'm not sure why I came,' he said. ‘I genuinely wanted to know how you were all getting along. I wondered how Alec was doing. I wondered, I don't know … I wondered if you were all OK.'

Patrick nodded as if that was all completely understandable.

‘You know,' Gregory went on suddenly, ‘at risk of sounding foolish and, believe me, I hate to sound foolish, but it's like all of you are the last links in a very long chain. I broke most of the chain, and what I didn't break is mostly either dead, retired of strategically disappeared. Or people I'm not sure I want to get involved with right now. So I guess you and your dad and Alec and Naomi, you're like the only people I know that aren't in any of those categories. So I wanted to know if you were all OK. Considering.'

‘Wow,' Patrick said. ‘I think that's the most I've ever heard you say.' He laughed. ‘You want more coffee?'

‘Maybe in a minute.'

‘You want to see if the conversation is going to go on long enough to last for another cup,' Patrick said. ‘Hey, look, I hate awkward silences too. I'm no good at – what's it called – small talk, either.'

‘Does anyone call it that any more? Small talk?'

‘My dad does.'

Gregory chuckled. ‘I suppose Harry would,' he said. ‘So?'

‘So I think we risk another coffee. Actually, if you don't mind, I could do with some advice. Or, rather, I think Naomi could. So …'

‘I'm not sure I'm that good on advice.'

‘Trust me.' Patrick handed his cup to Gregory. ‘I think you'll do just fine.'

Gregory obediently went and bought more coffee. He had surprised himself with what he had said to Patrick and surprised himself even more that it was true. He felt cast adrift, purposeless and never in his life had Gregory encountered such a feeling. Life had been structured, organized. He received his orders and he followed them. Later, when he had left the army and become another kind of soldier, he had been given an assignment and followed it through to its conclusion. True, that usually had a negative consequence for someone else, but Gregory had always been thorough, conscientious, excellent and now …

He took the coffee back to the table and sat down. Patrick had taken a sketch book from his bag and was drawing. Gregory resisted the temptation to ask what he was doing. Instead, he said, ‘So, this advice you wanted. About Alec?'

Patrick's hand stopped moving. He sat forward and laid the sketchbook down on the windowsill. It was a view from the cafe window, Gregory noted, but changed, transformed into something new and strange. The reflections in the window across the street seemed to be moving forward, out of plane and the little carvings that decorated the mock Tudor mouldings had come alive, writhing with personality.

‘I like that,' he said. ‘What are you going to do with it?'

Patrick shrugged. ‘I'm doing studies for a painting,' he said. ‘It's at home; I work on it at weekends mostly.'

‘Not an art school project?'

The expression on Patrick's face told him all he needed to know. ‘You have to plough your own furrow, you know. Be who you are.'

‘Is that what you did?'

From anyone else that might have been accusatory; from Patrick it seemed merely curious.

Gregory nodded. ‘I suppose I used what talents I had,' he said.

‘To kill people?'

‘Kill some, protect others. Sometimes it was hard to tell.'

Patrick nodded thoughtfully. There was, Gregory noted, still no judgement in the boy's eyes. No, not boy, he corrected himself. Patrick was the same age Gregory had been when he did his first tour of duty. He hadn't thought of himself as a boy then and would have resented the idea coming from anyone else.

Patrick sipped his coffee and Gregory nibbled what was left of his cookie, struck by how surreal this whole conversation actually was. The truth was he barely knew Patrick. Their paths had crossed in the early summer when he and Gregory had both been drawn into the same game. At the time, Patrick and his father, Harry, had been set on protecting a friend. Gregory had been set on finding out who wanted him blamed for something he had not actually done – a rarity and novelty in Gregory's life. Their paths had crossed obliquely since but this was the first time they had actually had a proper, face-to-face conversation.

‘I think Alec's depressed,' Patrick said. ‘Naomi doesn't know what to do with him. He hardly speaks and he only goes out when she makes him. He won't talk to her and he won't talk to us and we're all really worried.' He looked expectantly at Gregory.

‘I'm not an agony aunt,' Gregory said.

‘No, but you're probably the only person I know, apart from Naomi, who's almost died. Naomi seems to have found a way to cope with it. Alec can't seem to.'

Gregory nodded slowly. ‘For some people, surviving can be almost harder than not,' he said. ‘Sorry, that's a stupid thing to say, but what I mean is, for some people it's survivor guilt. They make it when their friends don't.'

‘But that's not Alec,' Patrick said. ‘No one died. At least no one he knew. There was nothing he could stop. His aunt Molly was in the car with him and she's fine.'

He had a point, Gregory thought. ‘Did you ever meet Molly Chambers?'

Patrick laughed. ‘She's fun,' he said. ‘She knew Salvador Dali and Picasso. She's got this photo album—'

‘Fun? Not something many people say about Molly, I imagine.'

‘I like her.' Patrick's fingers twitched. He seized the sketch book again and the pencil moved swiftly across the page. ‘Have you ever been depressed?'

Gregory thought about it. Had he? ‘No, I don't think so. I've been sad to lose friends. I've been angry. I don't think I ever did depressed. It's not a weakness, though,' he added quickly. ‘I think it can happen to anyone and I don't think the reasons always make sense. I think, maybe, it isn't one of those things you can always find a reason for. I think sometimes it just happens; it creeps up on you and before you know it the world is dark and you can't see your path.'

The drawing ceased and Patrick looked at him again. He nodded slowly, as though Gregory had said something important. ‘Maybe that's it,' he said. ‘I think Alec has always known exactly what he's meant to be doing. I think maybe he just can't see that any more.'

‘Some of us are defined by what we do,' Gregory said softly. ‘For some of us, that
is
our identity.'

Patrick cocked his head to one side, considering. He nodded again, the pencil now twirling between his fingers, and Gregory realized that he could have been describing the young artist by what he'd just said. In his own way, Patrick was just as driven as Gregory – though, unless he chose to ram a pencil into someone's ear, he was unlikely to do the sort of damage Gregory had spent his life inflicting.

On some level, Gregory realized he ought to have a conscience about that; it ought to bother him. He'd more than once been described as a sociopath – or worse – and he acknowledged that was probably true; not that he had given it a lot of thought over the years. Not that he planned to give it a lot of thought now.

‘Want to come home and eat with us?' Patrick asked unexpectedly. ‘It's Friday, so I'm cooking. Dad gets home later on Fridays.'

‘I'm not sure …'

‘Look, Dad wouldn't mind. You look like you're at a loose end. You can help peel the spuds.'

Gregory smiled. ‘Why not,' he agreed. ‘If you're sure Harry won't mind?'

Patrick shrugged. ‘He's more adaptable than people think,' he said. ‘People look at my dad and they think “accountant”, which he is, but he isn't someone like you said. Someone defined by their work. He's good at it and it pays the bills, but that's not Harry.'

They rose and Gregory picked up Patrick's portfolio while the artist struggled with his bag. It held far too much stuff, Gregory thought. Packed so full the straps wouldn't fasten.

‘What on earth have you got in there?'

‘Art stuff, mostly. Important stuff. You know, the things you wouldn't want to lose if your house went up in flames.'

Gregory laughed and then realized that on some level at least, Patrick was serious.

‘And is that likely to happen?'

‘No, I guess not.'

‘You want to explain?'

They started down the stairs and Patrick seemed to be considering. ‘No, I guess not,' he said again.

‘You're strange, you know that?'

A few steps below him, Patrick glanced back over his shoulder and grinned. ‘Other people have commented on that,' he said and continued on down the stairs. Watching him, Gregory noted an odd, new tension in the younger man's shoulders and wondered what line his comments had crossed. He felt a pang of regret. Found that it mattered to him that he might have said something upsetting and was again disturbed. There had been few people in Gregory's life whose feelings he had worried about and, he reminded himself, he barely knew Patrick and his father in any real sense. This was an acquaintance of coincidence, not of type or purpose or … whatever else people founded their friendships upon.

By the time they left the bookshop below the cafe, Patrick seemed to have relaxed again and seemed also to have come to a decision.

‘Stuff happened,' he said. ‘Stuff that made me realize how fragile things were. From aged about six or seven, I suppose, I used to keep a bag packed with all my most precious stuff inside. I mean, back then it was stones and string and action figures and my pencils and a sketch book, but I did it so long I've found it a hard thing to break. I always want to be ready, you know? Prepared? I stopped doing it for a while, but then …'

‘Did you start again after what happened earlier this year?'

Patrick shook his head. ‘No, before that. Dad and Naomi and I, we got caught up in a bank raid. It shook me up a lot, like I kept thinking what I could have had with me that might have helped. I mean, it would all have been taken away, probably; I'm not talking logic here. Then a friend of mine, well, he got himself involved in something bad and ended up killing someone and then he killed himself and I think I started again after that. To be honest, though, it's got a bit obsessive the last week or two. Even Dad's started to notice.'

‘Since you started at uni?'

Reluctantly, Patrick nodded, then he laughed. ‘Pathetic, isn't it? It's only a university course, it's not life or death, but I've not felt so … I don't know, out on a limb, not for a long time.'

‘I'm parked in that street over there,' Gregory said, pointing. They crossed the road while Gregory thought about what Patrick had said. He realized, belatedly, that he should have denied the ‘pathetic' comment immediately. He really did need to brush up his social skills.

‘Not pathetic,' he said. ‘But I think you need to do something about it, now, before you need one of those old lady shopping trolleys.'

He was relieved when Patrick laughed. ‘I know,' he said. ‘I'm just finding it hard to do something about it.'

Gregory opened his car and stowed Patrick's stuff on the back seat. ‘Isn't admitting a problem supposed to be the first step to solving it?' he asked.