A Banquet of Consequences (70 page)

He did think about this. She could see that. At least it seemed he was considering her words but, at the end, perhaps it was only his response that he considered, for he said, “That’s not entirely fair of you, India, but I’ll play along. I suppose it’s not.”

He leaned towards her then and kissed her good-bye.

“Nat . . .”

“Go to him” were his final words.

She’d done so. She would never know if Charlie had been waiting for her at the window overlooking the street, but he was so quick to the door at her knock that she reckoned he must have been watching. He would have seen the brevity of her conversation with Nat. He would have seen the kiss. But the rest he would not know, and she did not intend to tell him.

He’d been in bed when Alastair had phoned him, but there was little enough sleep left for him or for her that night. She insisted he at least attempt sleep, though, and she went to the bedroom with him and made certain he tried. She’d lain next to him, not under the covers but on top of them and completely clothed. She did this, she told herself, so that Charlie would understand that she’d come to him only as a friend would come, to see another friend through a terrible moment. She did this although she knew it was a futile gesture, most especially as far as Nat was concerned. There had, she understood, been a great deal of truth in what he’d said to her. Always, there would be Charlie on the periphery of her life.

She wouldn’t let Charlie speak although she knew he wanted to. When he tried, she’d whispered, “Later. Try to relax for now,” and she’d caressed his head. The reality was there wasn’t a great deal to say. He would, at this point, have only limited knowledge of what
was going on in Dorset. It was far better to wait till they had more details before they began to try to understand them.

He’d finally fallen asleep round half past six. She’d eased herself off the bed at that point. She’d left him and had gone into the sitting room. She’d lowered her body to the sofa and recalled Charlie’s words about its discomfort for sleeping. He was right. It was boardlike. But even if that had not been the case, she admitted to herself that sleep would have eluded her. She spent several hours attempting it, though. Ultimately, she’d given up the effort and swung her legs to the floor.

She’d remembered to phone the Wren Clinic and to leave a message that she would not be at work that day and probably not the following day either. Family emergency was what she’d called it. If they would please reschedule her appointments . . . ? She’d probably have to go out of town, but she’d be in touch as soon as she was able.

That going-out-of-town business was something she actually didn’t know, but she reckoned Charlie would insist upon going down to Dorset. He would want to see Alastair in person for the details of what had occurred; he would want to talk to his mum and make what sense he could of her confession; he would want to be of help in making whatever arrangements one made in that confession’s aftermath. Would there be a trial, as Nat had suggested? Would there merely be an appearance in court where sentence was passed? What occurred when someone confessed and why didn’t she know this? India asked herself.

Her head had felt cloudy and incapable of coming up with answers, which was how she’d ended up at the window overlooking Leyden Street. Perhaps, she’d thought, the view of something other than the interior of the flat would give her different facts and possibilities to consider. When it hadn’t done that, she decided that having a coffee was in order. So finally she went to the kitchen to make one.

There was only instant-coffee powder, so that would have to do. She set the kettle to boil, and opened the fridge for milk. She wasn’t at all hungry, but she gave thought to eating as well. And Charlie would need to eat when he finally rose. He was probably operating on nerves alone at this point, but he’d end up collapsing if she didn’t force some food upon him.

There was little to eat in the fridge. An opened package of Stilton, one egg in a six-pack carton, sausage rolls, condiments, limp broccoli, even limper celery, carrots, an unopened package of romaine lettuce going bad, and a half-used container of artificial butter.

In the freezer, things were little better. Frozen kedgeree, waffles, ice, and a package of chicken breasts bearded with frost.

The cupboards held baked beans, Pot Noodle, a loaf of bread, an unopened package of rice crackers. There were oils and vinegars and a rack of spices, but that was it.

Making a shopping list was a good plan, she decided. She fixed herself the coffee when the water boiled, added milk and sugar, and carried this out to the dining room table. In her bag, she had a pen but no paper, so she returned to the kitchen for a search. The back of an envelope would do, a piece of junk received in the post or a handout from the street. But Charlie was neat as a pin, so there was nothing to use. She went back to the sitting room.

She settled on one of the dog-eared notebooks that were held upright on the shelf along with the art books that Charlie had purchased since the time of her leaving him. There were four, and arbitrarily she chose the one nearest the bookend holding everything in position. Surely it would have a blank page she could rip out, she thought. She opened it and saw that indeed it did.

To make certain this wasn’t a document essential to Charlie’s work as a therapist, though, she flipped quickly to the front. That was when she realised that she wasn’t looking at Charlie’s possession at all. The sketches of garden plans and garden features along with the notes declared that the notebook belonged to Will.

She riffled the pages a little sadly and saw how lovely Will’s drawings had been. He’d had great talent for this occupation. It was one of fate’s finer cruelties, she thought, that his afflictions had prevented him from using that talent to its fullest.

Less than midway through the notebook, though, she saw that the drawings had ceased and that writing had begun. She read the first of it and understood from this that at some point Will had begun using his notebook as a journal of sorts. There was no date accompanying the entries he made, but the alteration in inks suggested he’d made
them over time. They were interspersed with still more drawings of garden features. There were perhaps two dozen of both in gradually worsening cursive. She began to read.

Should have listened to Lily. The blabs are worse here than anywhere and I want to leave but I can’t. Can’t Will? Isn’t won’t the truth? But if that’s the case, what’s the why of it, man?

India frowned. The fact that Will was declaring that Lily was right suggested that his decamping to Dorset from London was his subject. India knew that Lily had been opposed to that. But if the Wording had been worse there, as he said . . . She read on.

That day in London when she and Alastair came is when I should have known. The blabs coming on that damn day and nothing stopping them and it was all no good till she saw to me herself and right then in that second I could see what would happen if I came back but I let her and I can’t declare I was too far gone to stop her because I don’t believe that I’m not a six year old am I? She says don’t worry about it if it works to help you I want to help you because mothers are meant to help their children. But I don’t want it and I don’t even find it pleasurable but—

A large section was scribbled over, making it illegible. The word
pleasurable
made India pause, though, as did
she saw to me herself
. The combination of the two caused her skin to prickle with warning.

She flipped forward a few pages till she saw
when she blows me,
and it seemed in that instant time utterly stopped.

Jesus make her leave me alone when I don’t want her to leave me alone and I want to cut the brain from my head. It’s working and you can see it’s working when was the last time you had a seizure is what she says and I know it’s the truth. It stops them and if there isn’t another way because that’s the worst I’ve started wanting—

More scribbling over, half a page torn out, a thick-stubbed pencil trying to write in a script that was most illegible save for:

I must have known it would be like this

And farther down the page:

I knew we’d go back to it. I lock the door but then a seizure at dinner and I ran but it got bad and she was saying Don’t do this to yourself when I can help you let me help you I do this only out of love for you that’s all it is and it was like London that day and I tried to say what does it matter that she’s
your mum if it works and it’s always worked only now she tells me she says I have to confess forgive me darling boy but I love it the feel of you inside

India froze. She felt as if her gaze had become fixed on the word
inside,
in such a way that she’d not be able to move her eyes away from it. But move they did, of their own accord, to allow her to see:

me and the truth is terrible but I want you to because it means we have this time together and let me confess that I love you in so many different ways And the worst. I like it. I hate it. I like it. And I’m useless and I’ve always been unless I can get away from her from this

India found she’d actually begun to crumple the pages as she read. Her stomach was churning, and she swallowed convulsively in reaction to the bile that rose in her throat. She made herself continue and was reading
Found a place in Yetminster I mean to take it It’ll be a fresh start and I swear the rest is done with,
when she heard the words “Oh God” come at her on a breath from across the sitting room, and there was Charlie watching her and on his face she saw a dawning horror that told her more clearly than a confession could have done what she should have known all along, from the very first time they’d attempted to make love.

She said, “Oh no. Oh, Charlie.” She thought he might turn, perhaps run to the bathroom and lock himself inside like an adolescent girl whose most carefully guarded secret has just been exposed by a parent. But he didn’t do that. He merely sank against the wall—one shoulder against it to hold him up—and his gaze fixed on hers with such anguish that she knew the rest of his story as if he’d recited it. Which was what he did, in a voice so low she had to strain to hear him.

“Dad would go off to do his surgeries. All round the world. A month or two, this was. Sometimes three. She said she was frightened. In the house alone. Of course she wasn’t alone—Will and I were there—but what were we? Kids. Inadequate protection at best.” He licked his lips. She could see that his tongue was nearly colourless. “We’d search the house first, she and I. I’d go into the rooms ahead of her to make sure there were no intruders. Every room, this was. Upstairs, downstairs, in the basement as well. We’d make the search with a torch because she said it was important intruders didn’t know we were looking. This didn’t make sense but then nothing made sense. We did her bedroom last.”

“Charlie,” she said in a rush, “you don’t need to tell me.”

“I must, I think. What do they say? What do I say to my own clients?” He laughed weakly. “‘You’re only as sick as your secrets.’ Well, God knows isn’t that the truth about me? And haven’t I been as sick as my secrets since the dawn of my life.”

“Please. Don’t.”

“She’d stay outside the room while I went in,” he plunged on. “I’d look under the bed and behind the curtains and into the cupboards and all the time I thought I’d piss my pants because I was so scared but I couldn’t tell her this when she was calling me her big brave man. ‘You’re the man of the house, my darling,’ she would say. ‘You’re my big brave man.’ And what six-year-old doesn’t want to be—”

“You were six?
Six?
”

“But she was too frightened to sleep alone when Dad wasn’t there, no matter that we’d searched the house together top to bottom and made certain the windows and doors were all locked. Sleep with your mummy while Dad’s off saving the world with his surgeries was how she put it. Mum needs to be held to feel quite safe, she said. That’s how it began. ‘Hold me, Charlie. Give me a cuddle. D’you know how to spoon, darling boy? Tuck your legs behind mine, just so. Put your arms round me nice and snug. It’s nicest when you hold Mummy’s breast as well, just the way you did when you were small. There. Cup it nicely, darling. Just like this. Hold the nipple between your fingers. Squeeze if you like. Isn’t that lovely? I can sleep now, Charlie. So peaceful, darling.’ And all the rest.”

“How long did she . . . do this?” she asked.

“Long enough,” he said. “When she left Dad for Alastair, it ended. I thought . . . Well, I can put this behind me. What happened happened. And really, what was it? Not much, actually. And it didn’t
mean
anything. She just needed someone to take care of her and Dad wasn’t there to do it. And now, I told myself, she’s got Alastair and he’s always round so she won’t be frightened. What I didn’t know . . .” He gestured to the notebook she held on her lap.

“She’d moved on to Will.”

“She never stopped. She got worse. But I didn’t know. I swear to God, I didn’t know. Till Lily gave me that journal.”

“
Lily?
How did she come to have it? When did she give it to you? How long have you known?”

His gaze was level as he apparently let her think it through. He moved into the sitting room and he sat in his therapist’s chair and he just waited, wordless.

She said, “Charlie?”

He said, “You know, India. You don’t want to, but you know.”

“Truly, I don’t. Except . . . it would have to be after Will died that Lily got this somehow because he wouldn’t have wanted her to know or anyone, really, to know . . .” And then she did see it play out in her mind’s eyes and she said, “The envelope. The dedication of Will’s memorial and Lily was in the street nearby, watching and . . . Oh my God, Charlie,
I
gave this to you. Oh
God
, why didn’t I leave it lying there in the weeds? But you said the police. You swore the police. You were taking it to them. You swore to that.”

“I took it to them,” he affirmed. “But when they saw what it was, they handed it back. It wasn’t a bomb. It wasn’t anthrax. To them it was just a notebook of drawings and some random scribblings that they didn’t bother to read because all of it meant nothing as far as the ASBO went.”