Wronged Sons, The (17 page)

“No, Daddy didn’t commit suicide,” I replied, unsure of how to end the conversation.

“But how can you know that?” asked James.

“Because Daddy had no reason to. People only do that when they don’t think they have any other choice. Daddy loved us too much.”

I hadn’t told another living soul but it had crossed my mind that maybe you had. I mulled over everything that happened with Billy and wondered if I’d been too wrapped up in myself to notice how badly it had affected you too. If I’d been a better wife, maybe I’d have noticed your sadness instead of wallowing in mine.

“Well, this is what I think happened,” I began softly. “The day that Daddy disappeared, I think he went out for one of his runs somewhere new. And I think he got lost, and then he had an accident. But because nobody knows where he went, we can’t find him.”

“Shall we go and look for him again?” asked Robbie, helpfully.

“I don’t think that will help. I don’t think he’s able to come back.”

I still couldn’t bring myself to say out loud that maybe you were dead. We arrived home and Emily skipped over towards the swing.

“Is he in heaven?” Robbie continued. I paused, hating myself for what I was about to say.

“Yes, I think he might be.”

“When will Daddy come back?” yelled Emily from the swing.

“I don’t think he will, sweetie.”

“Oh,” she replied, and frowned. “Push me really hard, Mummy.” I began pushing her more gently than she’d expected so she wriggled her legs backwards and forwards to gain more height.

“Harder Mummy, you’re not pushing hard enough!” she complained.

“Why do you want to go so high?”

“So I can kick God in the bum until he sends Daddy home.”

Good idea, I thought.

***

Paris, Twenty-Four Years Earlier

January 10, 2.40pm

I raised my head to look up at the publisher’s third floor offices on Boulevard Haussmann, and fumbled nervously with the twenty thousand French francs crammed into my trouser pockets.

I felt a pang of disappointment in myself for being the man to have sold all that Pierre Chareau had written, sketched and then shipped to the Hotel Pres de La Cote for reasons unknown. But I’d done what was necessary to carry me forward.

It took four trains and two buses to reach Paris. My backpack contained very few personal belongings to make room for the rarest items I’d rescued from the skip. The rest I’d sent by post six weeks earlier to Madame Dipthique, a publisher of arts and historical work, to offer it for sale.

I considered handing the collection to the Musée des Art Décoratifs where it could be displayed alongside other notable works of famous French visionaries. But the next part of my journey would be expensive, and I was still more charity than charitable.

On my arrival, it took Madame Dipthique several days to verify the authenticity of the most recent deliveries. But once deemed genuine, I was offered a fee and a percentage of future book sales.

I requested those royalties were instead forwarded to an address in England. I doubted whether Darren Glasper’s family would ever know why they were receiving intermittent cheques from a Parisian publisher. But if it helped perpetuate the myth their deceased son had made a success of his all-too-brief travels, then it was worth every centime.

I however, preferred to be paid in cash, as a man who no longer exists has no need for a bank account. And with the financial means to move forwards, my next stop was a travel agent to book a one-way flight.

New York, America

February 4, 2.40am

While everyone else slept soundly around us in designated bunk beds, the girl and I silently made love in hers.

I’d placed the palm of my hand against the breezeblock wall to stop the bed’s metal frame from rocking against it. The other was held over her mouth to mask from the slumbering masses her groans while she climaxed. It wasn’t long before I joined her, then allowed my limp body to flop to her side. Her name had already escaped me, but it didn’t matter as she’d made plans to leave for Chicago in the morning. I pulled on my underwear and went to give her a polite peck on the cheek, but she had already fallen into a drunken sleep.

The day after bidding adieu to Paris, my alter ego Darren Glasper landed in New York.

The ignorant often looked upon America as a modern country lacking history or culture. What I saw was a continent littered with small pockets of culture in every person, in every building and on every street. Just because no one creed, religion or class stood prouder than any other didn’t mean a whole nation was lacking in essence.

And what better country was there for me to begin again than in one whose gateway housed a landmark with broken chains at her feet and a torch to light my way forward?

In the Lower Manhattan Youth Hostel, I lived the life of a teenager trapped in a thirty-three year-old man’s body. My days lacked routine and spontaneity was the only call I answered to. I aspired to throw myself at every new sensation I chanced upon. And that included the opposite sex. As teenagers, my friends experimented with any girls who’d indulge them. But you were the only one I’d ever been intimate with. And by marrying the first girl I’d fallen for, there was so much I’d missed out on.

A high turnover of guests meant the hostel’s arteries constantly pumped with fresh young blood. I enjoyed the company of women, and brief dalliances and one-night stands meant there was no risk of them urging me to take things further or trying to get to know me. I needed to connect with people physically, but rarely for long and never emotionally. For just enough time to remind myself I could still connect, even if it was only expressed through empty, near-anonymous sexual acts with like-minded folk.

And it happened anywhere, from restaurant toilets, to alleyways; dormitories full of sleeping people to an underpass in Central Park. I had no filter for shame and few boundaries. I had many wasted years to catch up on and sex without emotion brought immediate gratification. New York was the city that never slept, and I had every intention of following suit.

I reached my bunk bed on the other side of the dorm and zipped myself up in my sleeping bag and thought back to my first kiss.

I’d never told you it wasn’t with you.

February 21, 4.10pm

I’d already walked the length of the Brooklyn Bridge once that day. On my return, I paused and leaned against the grey railings of the centre-way to stare across the vast expanse of the East River.

I thought back to when I was eleven and Dougie and I spent an afternoon in Abington Park. We stuffed decaying elm tree leaves and a stack of discarded Daily Expresses dumped by a lazy paperboy into an overflow pipe leading from an adjacent stream. Finally, when our masterpiece of modern engineering was complete, we waited patiently for a watery wrath to sweep over the town once the stream burst its banks. It was, however, an overly ambitious plan, and after an hour, Northampton was as dry as a bone.

Bored, I sat on the grass, leaned back on my elbows and closed my eyes. Suddenly something soft gently pressed itself against my lips. It remained there momentarily as I puzzled over whether I was awake or midway between sleep and consciousness. I opened my eyes to find Dougie’s lips upon mine.

He withdrew them as quickly as they’d been planted. He stared at me wide-eyed as if they’d developed a life of their own and he’d lost control of them. We remained motionless, one taking in the action and the other waiting for the reaction.

“Sorry,” he finally blurted out, before picking up his bike and cycling away as fast as his gangly legs could pedal.

I remained rooted to the grass, bewildered. Boys didn’t kiss boys; boys kissed girls. If a boy kissed a boy, he was a poof. All I knew about homosexuality was that poofs were to be feared, and if found, given a good hiding. They were dirty old men that sat alone in cinemas waiting to touch young lads if the opportunity arose. Or they ended up in prison for doing filthy things to each other that I didn’t really understand.

I was at a loss as to how I should respond, so I walked through the consequences of confiding in someone else. Should I tell my father, or Roger what had happened? Or would they think I was a poof too for not knocking his block off? I didn’t want to be guilty by association. Then if others knew, I wouldn’t be allowed to play with Dougie again, spend time at his house and be a part of his family. I didn’t want to be the one to blame for sending my best friend to jail. So because I had more to lose than him, I kept quiet.

The next morning, I stopped at Dougie’s house as normal to walk with him to school.

“Come on, we’re going to be late,” I began. He looked at me, confounded, I’m sure, that I’d gone anywhere near him again. And as we walked briskly down the High Street, from the corner of my eye I kept seeing his mouth opening and words forming before sentences evaporated into nothing. Eventually he spoke.

“The other day…” he began.

“Forget about it.”

“Have you told…?”

“Of course not. Now hurry up or we’ll get detention.” It was the last time the subject was ever touched on again. But it didn’t mean I’d ever forget.

My second first kiss was with you a couple of years later. As we sat together on Dougie’s bed scanning the hit parade in the Melody Maker, you leant over without warning, cupped your hand under my chin, and pulled it close to yours and kissed me. It was a wonderful, warm, sweet, kiss. You tasted of Parma Violets. I knew the longer it lasted, Dougie would catch us. You gradually pulled away and gave me the most beautiful, grin I’d ever seen. Then a shadow caught our eye, and we turned to find Dougie standing in the doorway.

He processed what he’d witnessed before he reanimated his blank face and placed the snacks in the centre of the bed, pretending he hadn’t seen anything.

I knew I’d wounded him, but I didn’t know then how long he would wait to retaliate.

March 20, 1.55pm

I scanned the row of cars parked by the curb outside Brooklyn’s brownstone townhouses. I’d watched the owner forget to lock the door as she struggled up the stairs with two bags of groceries and a whining toddler.

There was a fist-sized dent in the passenger door and the simulated wooden grain vinyl panels were sun-bleached and had begun to peel from its body. The rear seats bore the scratches from a large dog’s claws. A sticker with the name ‘Betty’ had been placed in the bottom left hand corner of the rear windscreen. She had a history, but then so had I.

Casually I slipped inside the Buick Roadmaster Station Wagon and entwined the wires beneath the steering wheel column like Roger had shown me when I’d lost my keys to the Volvo. Then after trial, error, a spark and a splutter, Betty burst into life.

I could have chosen something a little grander and perhaps a little more modern. But she possessed the basic criteria required - she was practical, unremarkable and looked reliable. She had plenty of space inside her to offer passage to other travellers and her two rows of back seats folded forwards enabling me to sleep under the stars of the big sky country if I wished.

I’d grown restless after two months of exploring New York’s nooks and crannies. The signs of better days ahead at the dilapidated Meat Packing district; the magnitude of Central Park; the illuminated glory of Broadway and the bars and brothels of Soho had nothing more to offer. Each quarter had filled a need in me, yet the hullabaloo of city life left me exhausted so it was time to explore the arteries of America’s many hearts.

I pulled out into the road and scowled at the crucifix swinging from the rear-view mirror. I yanked it off its chain and threw it into the back seat. Then Betty and I began our first journey together into the great wide open.

***

Today, 1.20pm

He’d grown uncomfortable and tapped his finger against his lip each time she’d mentioned their children. Inside, she was smiling. Her plan had worked.

‘Remember why you’re here,’ he told himself. ‘Remember who’s in charge.’ He’d fought quite successfully at the start to convince himself not seeing them the morning he left was the correct thing to do. But deep in the pit of his belly, it was his one regret. Because after forcing himself to erase their young faces from his memory, it had later proved an impossible task to bring them back to life.

He’d thought about them more and more since meeting Luciana, and relied on guesswork as to how they might look now. He wondered whom they’d taken after genetically and if it was just James who’d inherited his father’s eyes. He had questioned how their laughter sounded and what their personalities were like, and felt a little downhearted knowing his own would’ve had little bearing on theirs. No matter what they’d taken from him biologically, she’d shaped them, not him.

He imagined what might happen if they were to meet under other circumstances. Would they have liked him? Ideally they’d have got to know him first and decided he was a decent fellow. Because when the big reveal eventually came, it would be harder for them to burn bridges built by someone they’d grown fond of.

While he daydreamed, she stewed on his recollections of sleazy liaisons with whores and pretty young things.

“So you ran away because I couldn’t satisfy you in bed? Or did you just want to sleep with girls half your age?” she asked indignantly. “You sound like a pervert.”

“Of course I’m not.”

“Well you’ll forgive me for saying so, but all I’ve heard so far is that your wife was a lousy lover and your morals were no better than that of an alley cat. And while I was coming to terms with your death, you were burning down hotels and screwing your way around America!”

When hearing it from someone else’s perspective, he conceded that’s exactly how it sounded even though it couldn’t have been further from the truth. He bit his lip; frustrated by both his tactlessness and her for being too focused on the finer details to understand the big picture. He needed to regain control of the situation, but it was proving hard to wrestle from her grip.