Unforgotten (12 page)

‘Probably not.’

‘Bad luck. Oh, Charlie called.’

‘How was he?’

‘Fine.’

‘He got our text okay?’

‘Oh yes . . . yes. A change to his holiday plans, though. He wants to go to Spain immediately after Christmas.’

‘
Spain?
But why?’

‘Two of his mates are going to Barcelona and he’s never been, and well, he thought it would be fun.’

‘But he’s meant to stay in a safe environment, not go off on trips whenever he feels like it. Spain’s full of drugs and God knows what else. It’s just asking for trouble.’

‘But these friends don’t do drugs.’

‘I don’t care. He’d be away from his counsellor and his NA meetings and all the things that keep him on the straight and narrow. And in a place riddled with temptation. No, I’m sorry, it’s not on.’

In the pause that followed, he could picture her standing outside a wine bar, hunched against the cold, wearing the slight frown she always wore when confronting a difficult problem. ‘Let’s talk about it when you get back,’ she said.

‘The answer’s still going to be no. I’m sorry, the idea’s completely crazy.’

Another pause. ‘All right. Shall I call Charlie and tell him how you feel? Or do you want to call him yourself?’

Hugh’s anger subsided a little. ‘No, you call him. I’d only make a mess of it.’

‘I’ll see if I can get him tonight.’

‘I’m sorry, Lizzie, but I really think it’s madness.’

‘I’m not sure you give him enough credit, darling, really I’m not. He’s thought it through, you know. He’s worked out how to manage. And it would only be for a week.’

‘Thought it through? If he’d thought it through he’d have realised that he’s just trying to run away and avoid reality, just like before.’ Into the silence that followed, he sighed, ‘I’ll phone him myself.’

‘No, let me do it. But Hugh? When you do eventually speak to him, don’t get angry, will you?’

‘Of course I won’t. Why would I get angry?’

‘Well, you’re angry now.’

He was about to protest when he played the sound of his own voice back to himself. ‘I worry, that’s all.’

‘I know you do.’

He sighed. ‘I wish I wasn’t going to this bloody dinner tonight.’

‘You’ll enjoy it once you’re there.’

‘And I’m getting a cold,’ he said dolefully. ‘I have the feeling it’s going to be a real stinker.’

But the conversation had risen to a roar again, as if a door had opened, and she shouted, ‘Sorry, darling, what did you say?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Look, I—’ Her voice was lost in the general hubbub or else she had turned to speak to someone. Then she was back, shouting, ‘Sorry. Got to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.’

‘Okay,’ he said reluctantly.

She rang off so abruptly, without a goodbye, that he stared at the phone, thinking they must have been cut off.

The faded blue front door swung open to reveal the substantial figure of Mike Gabbay. ‘For God’s sake!’ he said. ‘How are you doing, you old pagan?’ Throwing an arm over Hugh’s shoulder he gave him a bear hug. ‘God, this rain! Here, give me those!’ Hanging up Hugh’s coat and umbrella, he urged him
deeper into the house. ‘How long has it been, for heaven’s sake? Two years? Three? Too bloody long anyway. And look at you’ – he threw out an accusatory hand – ‘you must tell me how you do it. Sneak off to the gym? Practise some kind of Celtic witchcraft? Take a Welsh potion?’

‘I don’t do anything.’

‘What – nothing?’

‘Just the garden. And a bit of walking.’

‘No justice!’ Mike exclaimed contentedly.

Mike’s weight battle had been lost in childhood, he had been bald since his early thirties, but his dark eyes, set in the plump smooth-skinned face, glowed with a keen intelligence and love of life. The two of them had been articled to the same firm, but while Hugh had taken the well-travelled route into high street law Mike had set up on his own in what was then the frontier territory of asylum, immigration and human rights, an area which, he liked to complain proudly, was as badly paid then as it was now.

‘No justice,’ Mike repeated. ‘How’s Lizzie?’

‘Very well, thanks.’

‘Glad to hear it! Come and see Rachel. She’s in the kitchen.’

The house was Victorian and terraced and had the lived-in look of long occupation, with well-trodden carpets and bulging bookshelves and chipped paint.

‘What do you think of this?’ asked Mike, indicating the kitchen, which in stark contrast to the rest of the house had undergone a make-over, with modern units, halogen lighting and a tiled floor.

‘Looks very nice.’

Rachel broke off from her cooking to greet Hugh. She taught French and greeted him in the French style, with four rapid kisses to the cheeks.

‘My wife demanded a new kitchen after twenty-four years of marriage. I ask you!’ said Mike in mock dejection. ‘Fact is, we needed a project. You know how it is when the kids disappear.’

Rachel shot Hugh a quick smile which suggested that Mike’s need for a project had been rather greater than hers.

Mike pressed his hands together and said urgently, ‘Now, what’ll it be? I’ve got a nice unassuming little Bordeaux . . .’ He was already reaching for the bottle with one hand, a corkscrew with the other. ‘Bought it on the off-chance ten years ago and it’s done me proud ever since.’ Mike had always loved his wine, and when Hugh thought back to their days as articled clerks he always thought of suppers at Mike’s flat off the Harrow Road, with spaghetti bolognese washed down by Mike’s latest find, and meals at cheap restaurants which suddenly became rather less cheap after the discovery of something worth trying on the wine list. But if Hugh had sometimes had to survive the rest of the month on fish fingers and baked beans, he had always considered it a good bargain.

In another fluid movement Mike placed three wine glasses and a bowl of cashew nuts on the kitchen table. ‘First glass for the cook,’ he declared, pouring it rapidly.

‘Wise plan,’ said Rachel.

Mike waved Hugh to a chair at the kitchen table and sat opposite. ‘Right, young Hugh Gwynne,’ he said, filling their glasses. ‘A complete update, if you will. And no time off for good behaviour.’

‘Not sure there’s much to tell,’ Hugh said. But there was plenty to tell, and they had made serious inroads into the Bordeaux by the time Hugh had covered Lou’s gap year and her place at Edinburgh to read medicine, and Lizzie’s work for her lost and not-so-lost causes, and lastly, because Hugh couldn’t bear to let it dominate the family history, the roller-coaster of Charlie’s relationship with illegal substances.

‘God-awful things, drugs,’ said Mike. ‘The curse of our age. We’ve known a few kids who’ve gone that way, haven’t we, Rachel? Such a bloody waste. But Charlie’s all right now, is he?’

‘So far as I know. As of yesterday. That’s all you can ever say.’

‘You talk to him regularly?’

‘Oh, three times a week.’ In fact it was Lizzie who called three times a week, Hugh more like once a week because he worried about having enough to say. He added, ‘And we text in between.’

‘But it must be tough on you and Lizzie. The worry, I mean.’

‘Yes, but we’ve learnt to get on with our lives. It’s a hard lesson, but it’s the only way.’

Mike said, ‘We worry about Abbie, don’t we, Rachel? She doesn’t do drugs – at least we don’t think she does – but she’s been into almost everything else. Body piercing. Purple hair. Raves. Not eating properly. Spectral boyfriends with no visible means of support. Even now we’re not sure we’re out of the woods – are we, love? All you can do is keep your mouth shut and keep telling them you love them.’

Even as Hugh agreed with this, he wondered if he hadn’t failed Charlie on both counts. There had been times when, bewildered by Charlie’s capacity for self-sabotage, unable to find anything useful to say, he’d stayed silent, but there had been just as many occasions when he’d said too much, and badly. As for telling Charlie he loved him, he’d tried to say it regularly, but now it struck him with a pang of regret that he hadn’t said it nearly often enough.

‘We always tell ourselves there’s no need to worry while they keep coming home,’ Mike said. ‘And, thank God, Abbie still turns up every second weekend. Brings her laundry, sleeps all day, raids the fridge, heaves long-suffering sighs if we dare to ask about college.’ He raised an open palm. ‘Can’t ask for more.’

‘Charlie can’t get home very often.’

‘But he comes home – that’s the point.’

‘And with his laundry,’ Hugh smiled, wishing he could take more comfort from this. ‘And your boys?’

Both were scholars, one starting his first year at Cambridge, the other a postgraduate at Oxford with all the makings of a
history don. Mike spoke of them with a mixture of modesty and awe. ‘Don’t know where they get the academic bent from. The genes must have skipped a generation somewhere along the line.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ Rachel murmured in what was clearly an old refrain.

‘They’re lent to you, these kids,’ Mike said reflectively. ‘And there’s no accounting for how they turn out.’ He had been popping cashew nuts into his mouth, but now he pushed the bowl firmly in Hugh’s direction as if to distance himself from temptation. ‘And what about the big case, Hugh? How’s it going?’

At this, several conflicting thoughts went through Hugh’s mind. That the rules of confidentiality demanded his silence on the subject of Tom’s double game. That he hadn’t realised quite how badly he needed to talk to someone. That Mike was the perfect person to confide in, an old friend far removed from the case whose discretion, absolute as it was, would never be put to the test. That secrets, once out, had a habit of spreading.

‘It’s going okay,’ he said.

‘Your psychiatrists all singing from the same song sheet?’

For a wild moment Hugh imagined Mike knew all about the two sets of opinions, that in some strange parallel universe he too was acting for Tom. ‘Well . . . yeah . . .’

‘With our torture clients we find it always comes down to the expert evidence,’ Mike said. ‘How convincing it is. Because like your Mr Deacon our people don’t have much to show for what they’ve been through, the damage is all up here.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘Without the shrinks’ evidence they just get categorised as asylum seekers going for the oldest trick in the book. The attitude’s, well, they would say that, wouldn’t they? Unless they have the scars to prove it, of course. But clever torturers don’t leave scars.’ Mike added, ‘Nothing like an avalanche of pseudo science for bluffing your way through.’

‘Pseudo science?’

‘Psychiatry. It’s all observation, isn’t it, not hard science.
It’s all opinion and fashion. And’ – he raised his glass – ‘thank God for that. Otherwise half my asylum seekers would get thrown out of the country.’

Hugh said, ‘With Tom the issue’s not whether he’s got PTSD – no one’s questioning that – it’s whether he’s likely to recover, and if so, by how much.’

‘And will he?’

‘No one thinks so, no.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘Me?’ Hugh echoed, not used to offering a personal opinion. ‘No,’ he said after a moment, ‘I can’t see him recovering.’

Rachel said, ‘Perhaps Hugh would like a wash and change, Mike.’

Mike’s eyebrows shot up, he lumbered to his feet with a scrape of his chair. ‘Of course you would!’

‘Explain about the water,’ Rachel said.

‘Yes – hot but deathly slow.’

The room belonged to one of the sons, the walls decorated with scuffed photographs and old Sellotape marks, the available surfaces buried under papers and music systems. The bathroom was cluttered with toiletries, many without their caps, and Hugh was reminded of the kids’ bathroom at home. While the bath filled he went back to the bedroom and phoned Lizzie’s mobile. She answered at the third ring. Her voice, always a mirror to her mood, was affectionate but mildly preoccupied, as if she’d been in the middle of something.

‘Where are you?’ he asked.

‘Home.’

‘Not too long a day then?’

‘No. You sound awful, love, as if you’re getting a cold.’

‘Not getting,
got
,’ he said with a nudge of self-pity. ‘A real stinker. And I’ve had a God-awful day. Tom’s gone AWOL, the case looks as though it’s going to fall apart, I’ll probably have to resign, and it’ll be a miracle if anyone gets any money, myself included.’

‘Is it really that bad?’

‘Well, yes, it
is
,’ he said, wanting sympathy just then, not scepticism.

Her small ‘I see’ drove him to elaborate. He told the story at speed and without pause, skipping from point to point without logic or structure, the frustrations of the day pouring out in a fierce, unrelenting fume of woe and self-reproach. When he wasn’t repeating himself he was beating himself up in some new way, finding fresh sources of gloom. He should have seen it coming, he should have liaised with the solicitor in Exeter, he should have warned Tom against having two different stories, he should have handled the news differently. Now it was too late, the case would probably implode, Tom would be left with next to nothing.

When he finally came to a halt it was to be met by silence, as though Lizzie was waiting to be sure the onslaught was over.

‘Why don’t you talk to Mike about it?’ she said at last. ‘Ask his advice?’

‘I can’t. Ethically.’

‘What about hypothetically then?’

‘I can’t,’ he insisted. Then, hearing himself at his stubborn worst, he murmured, ‘Well, maybe . . .’ Then, aware that he had been talking at her non-stop for the last five minutes, he asked how her work had gone.

‘Oh, I had the most extraordinary day,’ she said. ‘Something of a breakthrough. Well, I think so anyway. But I’ll tell you about it another time.’

‘One of your cases?’

‘Yes,’ she said shortly, as if she really didn’t want to be drawn.

But Hugh was determined to demonstrate his interest. ‘Which one?’

‘Wesley. You remember Wesley?’

‘Of course I remember Wesley,’ he said, amazed she should imagine he didn’t. ‘Have you managed to get them rehoused?’

‘No. It’s something else, something . . .’ A small rush of
breath while she framed the words. ‘. . . something that completely changes their situation.’

‘Great. What—’

But she cut across him to say, ‘Look, I spoke to Charlie. He’s very upset.’

‘Oh?’ Hugh said, not wanting the weight of Charlie’s problems just then. ‘What about?’

‘You not wanting him to go to Spain. He feels you don’t trust him. That you’ve got no faith in him.’

‘Well, I don’t,’ he said baldly.

‘He feels—’

‘Christ! Hang on!’ Hugh rushed into the bathroom. The water was an inch below the overflow, and he turned off the taps with a shudder of relief. ‘Okay,’ he admitted, returning to Lizzie, ‘perhaps I don’t trust him. No, I’ll rephrase that – it’s his
addiction
I don’t trust, the way it seems to pounce without warning. So what’s wrong with that? If he had more sense he wouldn’t trust his addiction either.’

‘But this is counterproductive, don’t you see?’

‘I’m sorry, but how exactly?’

‘He feels that his achievement over the last few months means nothing to you, that you don’t appreciate how well he’s done. And it’s hurt him. He’s really upset.’

‘But how did you put it to him? What did you say?’

‘I said you were worried about him going to Spain, that you didn’t think it was a good idea. That’s all.’

‘In that case, he’s overreacting.’

‘Maybe. But that’s the way he sees it.’

Hugh felt a sudden weariness. ‘I’ll call him, okay? I’ll call him this evening.’

‘If you would, darling. And Hugh?’

‘Yes,’ he pre-empted her, ‘I promise not to get angry.’

‘And your cold. Do take an aspirin, won’t you? Or a Panadol. Ask Rachel – she’s bound to have something.’

Hugh felt better after his bath. Before calling Charlie he sat
on the bed, the phone ready in his hand, preparing an argument based on concern rather than distrust, rehearsing a warm loving tone. But when he finally dialled it was to be diverted to Charlie’s message service, and then he left a short message, asking Charlie to call. It was only after he’d rung off that he realised how impersonal the message had sounded, and how he’d forgotten to give Charlie his love.