Inconsolable (30 page)

“I own that bottle of wine and the four hundred other bottles in the cellar. I own this foyer, this staircase, this house.”

She looked at the plastic cup of wine in her hand. “I don't understand. It's owned by a trust.”

“I own that trust. I'm worth conservatively,” he studied the label on the wine bottle. He'd taken no care choosing it, but no bottle in the cellar was worth less than two hundred dollars, “hell, I don't know anymore. I'm your average rich-lister and I really need to buy you a better car.”

“What?” She tossed the wine back in a long swallow and reached for the bottle.

“That crappy car you drive, it's not safe.”

“Stop. I need a reboot.” She refilled her cup. “You're serious.” She waved it at him. “You own this house and you want to buy me a car. You're not buying me a car.”

“Not without an argument.”

“Drum.”

He shook his head, no more distractions, no more stalling. “I told you my father was a chemist. I said we started a company together. Have you heard of a drug called Circa?”

“A sleeping pill. My dad took it when he was having trouble with insomnia. It helped him a lot.”

Drum grabbed for Foley's free hand. The thought anyone in her family could be affected was like a knife in his side. “Promise me you'll make sure he never takes it again.” She jerked in surprise and wine sloshed out of her cup, over the last slice of pizza resting in the box.

He released her. “I'm sorry.” At this rate he'd confuse her, frighten her, lose her before he was ready to. “You have to promise me.”

“Okay.” Her eyes were big and concerned. “I promise.”

“My father is the chairman of a company called NCR pharmaceuticals. It's the company that developed and markets Circa. His name is Alan Drummond.”

“Drum?”

“Was my nickname at school. Alan called me Trick, to everyone else I'm the founding CEO of NCR, Patrick Drummond.”

She stood and walked down the two steps to the floor, turned and faced him. “We have to start again because this is not making any sense.”

“I didn't hurt Alison, but I saw her in the park.”

“I got that bit. And the part about you not being a hermit squatter.”

“I am a squatter, this was my home, one of them. I just can't be here.”

“You're worth millions, billions?”

He nodded. “I haven't looked at a financial statement for a long time, but yes.”

She jammed her hands on her hips. “You've been living in a cave and doing odd jobs.”

“I can explain why. It was the only way.”

“You have one pair of broken shoes, and four hundred bottles of wine.”

He nodded. He should've figured on her disbelief.

She made finger quotes. “‘Billionaire drug company baron gives it all away to live in a cave.' Is that the headline Nat would write? You don't live in this house but you could. You don't use the second storey and all that's down here is the laundry, the garage, the foyer and the place where you keep four hundred bottles of wine.”

“The cellar.”

“Did you give all the furniture away?”

“Yes.”

“Your clothes?”

“Yes. I let the charities in to take what they wanted.”

“Why?”

“Because I had to pay. I still have to pay. No one else would.”

She came up the steps and took his face in her hands. He flinched. She shouldn't want to touch him. It was impossible not to meet her eyes. He didn't know how many more times he'd have that pleasure.

“What is it you've done, Drum?”

“That drug hurts people.”

“If they abuse it, sure. All drugs have to be taken with care.”

“No.” He put his hands over hers and drew them away from his face. It wasn't that simple. Some people got sick. The drug made them crazy. They crashed cars, jumped off bridges and in front of trains, drank themselves into comas, some of them died. They died because of him, his cleverness, his celebrated acumen, his ambition, his greed. And when he saw it was evil, he tried to shut it all down, but the whole thing was too big, too many careers invested, too many investors, too much money. It was easy and lawful to hide behind warnings and usage guidelines, behind legal jargon and confidential compensation deals.

“Yes, but that's not what I mean. Circa can affect people badly, lower their inhibitions, make them sleepwalk, make them hurt themselves or others. A lot of people who took it died and that's my fault.”

“Are you saying the drug doesn't help people?”

He stood, let her hands go. It helped more people than it hurt, but that wasn't enough. “The loss is unacceptable.”

“But there are warnings like for most drugs, if people don't—”

“The warnings aren't enough.” Even when he'd had them changed, made more specific. It wasn't enough. Why wasn't he explaining this well enough for her to understand?

“Are you saying it's a conspiracy?” Her voice dropped to a whisper as if the idea was too big to say aloud. But it was nothing so obviously sinister.

He pushed a hand through his hair. It was always hard to get people to understand this. “I'm saying no one should die because they're having trouble sleeping.” It couldn't be simpler than that.

“Okay, but you can't market a drug that's harmful. There must be checks and balances. Doesn't the government have a say?”

“Yes, but it's not enough. There's too much money being made, too many careers. The system is corrupt.” It's what the whole industry did. Professional lies, couched in variable truths and acceptable exceptions. Circa was no different. No worse, they'd said. It helped millions of people with severe insomnia. But no one was meant to go mad, no one was meant to die.

“Drum, you're freaking me out.”

He'd put half the foyer between them. Foley looked small and scared and so tired, and she didn't understand. She was like his father, like the board, she didn't believe him. She couldn't see how he'd failed again and again to take back control, to stop what he'd started, to shut it all down until they forced him out. His company. His board. His chairman, his own father. Discredited, damned, lost, so lost and so full of guilt and death he'd wanted to die too.

“You don't believe me.”

“I believe you believe this.”

He pulled at his hair. He knew he'd never be able to explain the rules to her, the cave and how he needed to live so he didn't hurt people any more, didn't make it any worse.

“Tell me why you don't live in the house, why you don't like to go upstairs. It's one of your rules. Tell me about your rules.”

She was humouring him, like they all did. He paced. It might help him think of a way to make her understand without showing her the ugliness.

“You're punishing yourself, aren't you?”

“No one would take responsibility.”

“So you do penance by living in a cave?”

He stopped and turned to her. “It's better than I deserve.” Maybe she did understand.

Her face crumpled. “Oh my God.” Her voice wavered. “You're not responsible. It's not possible for one person to be responsible for this.”

No, no. She thought he was the one suffering. He went to her.

“Yes, it is. I could've stopped it, but it still goes on. I failed. Every day people take that drug, take the risk. Every day more money is made. I tried to stop it. But I wasn't strong enough, smart enough.”

She reached for his hand and he ached to draw her into his arms to have the balm of her, but she didn't know it all and she couldn't pardon him till she did. “The third door down from the bedroom is my office. It's all there. You need to read it before you can understand me.”

She wiggled her fingers. “All right. Come with me. Help me.”

He didn't want to see her face, read her disappointment when she realised he was telling the truth. “I'll wait for you here.” He took a seat on the stairs.

She stood in front of him. What he'd told her might be enough. If she left him now, she'd know he'd never meant to hurt her.

She stepped closer and brushed his hair back. “I don't think you did anything wrong. I don't think you're responsible.” He wanted to lean into her touch, but forced himself to keep his face averted. “It's not like driving through a red light, or shoplifting, or beating someone up. What you're describing is much bigger than one person.”

She knelt on the step. She kissed his cheek and he fought not to hold onto her. She left him there. He knew she'd find the clippings books, his computer, his legal files. It was hours of reading, but she needed to know what he'd done and why he deserved to pay.

27: Bare Essentials

No amount of wine was going to help. No amount of sleep, of discussion, of preparation, of regret. Foley had been formally introduced to Drum's madness, the episode that unhinged him and turned him into man so suffused by guilt he punished himself by stripping his life to the barest essentials. She wanted to weep for everything she didn't understand, maybe never would.

She stumbled upstairs and along the hallway fearful she'd walk into the physical manifestation of his twisted thinking, like something out of a movie. She paused outside the office door. She imagined walls covered in scribble, nonsensical formulas and rambling explanations that made no sense. Everything he told her could be true. All of it could be a distortion. She didn't trust she'd be able to tell the difference, but she had to try.

She swung the door open and light came on automatically, dim and then warming to a soft glow. If there were monsters lurking here she'd have to rout them out. Drum's office was the most intact room in the house. Fastidiously tidy and well organised. He had a fancy desktop system, with three large screens. There were two different tablets and a single five drawer filing cabinet. A set of files was stacked on the desk, but there wasn't a paper or a pencil out of place. It made her own desk look like the aftermath of a cyclone.

The pin board was where she went first. Six documents were pinned neatly to the cork surface. There was typing and handwriting. She moved closer to read a document at random. It was addressed to Patrick Drummond, CEO of NCR, dated three years ago. The next line of text filled her mouth with bile. It was confused and the handwriting difficult to read but the intent was clear. The writer's son had taken Circa and drowned in the family's pool. She looked at the typed letter placed next to it, again addressed to Patrick Drummond. She scanned it, holding her hand over her mouth. And the one next to it and the three pinned below.

Six letters. Six deaths from Circa.

Six death threats for Drum.

She made it to the bathroom where she'd thrown up before in time to throw up again. This time she was sick with the growing awareness of what had broken her hermit squatter, stealing his peace of mind, robbing him of his place in the world.

She drank water and used the toothbrush from last time. She went back to the office. She could spend hours here reading, trying to understand the death threats alone. She started on the filing cabinet. There were clippings of cases of misadventure associated with Circa, letters of demand from lawyers, board minutes she struggled to understand. She needed the cliff notes version. The tablets were without a charge, but the desktop booted up without a password, but then she realised there were no files, no data on it. Drum must've cleared it to give it away and then, like the random items left behind around the house, not found a new home for it.

She searched Circa and came up with a long list of websites. She started on the company's own site. Alan Drummond was listed as Chairman and CEO. Then she looked for news stories, reading up on the instances where the drug had been linked to the accidental injury or death of a user. There were several anti-user sites, warning of the adverse effect of the drug, but there were also news stories about increased warnings and the decision made to keep the drug registered and marketable because of its widespread efficacy.

Drum wasn't inventing this. He wasn't imagining the issue or its severity. But the way he'd assumed responsibility, the way the death threats personalised it, would challenge anyone's sanity. She read for several hours, until her eyes were so gritty blinking was uncomfortable.

Then she searched Patrick Drummond and entered Drum's world before it narrowed to fear and guilt, to a rock ledge and a cave.

She couldn't help herself, she started with images. She got Drum as businessman, gob-stoppingly handsome in tailored suits. She got him clean-shaved with a haircut that gave him old school glamour, shaking hands and smiling, behind podiums speaking, and in what looked like staff photos, without his suit coat, with his tie off and his sleeves rolled up, looking relaxed and laughing.

She got him as an A-lister on the town. The suits were different, black tie, his hands were occupied with the shoulders of beautiful women, one in particular who wore an enormous diamond ring. If lustrous was a person, she was the fiancée. And yet he'd preferred to play the field and that field included plenty of action. She saw him on horseback, piloting a small plane, playing golf, shooting hoops, sailing a yacht. Before he'd consigned himself to odd jobs, charity bin clothing and second-hand books, he'd been at conferences and balls, involved in high-level business and expensive sports. He had celebrated his life.

The more photos she looked at, the more disconnected the man who wore op shop clothing and didn't like to be upstairs in his own home was from his self of three years ago.

She went from photos to news stories, searching his full name. These were business page stories and financial analyst's reports about board ructions, about shareholder discontent. There was a profile headlined “The Meltdown of an Entrepreneur”. There was a story about him being forced out of the company and then nothing. He disappeared.