A Line of Blood (22 page)

I picked up the tin and turned it over in my hands. The enamel was pocked, the metal beneath rusted.

I opened the tin. A pair of pliers with pointed jaws. A small disgorger for removing fish hooks from fish gullets. Some flattened-out pieces of sheet lead. A steel penknife with a four-inch spike.

‘Are you serious?’ I said. ‘These are fishing tools. Where’s the problem, Millicent?’

‘The problem is underneath.’

I lifted the tin at one end so that the tools shifted to the other side. There, underneath, was the edge of a photograph, all faded greens and blues.

There was an intensity to Millicent’s eyes that I hadn’t seen in years. ‘Take out the picture, Alex.’

I drew it out by the edge.

The first thing I saw was the smiling faces. The next was the khaki: two men in short-sleeved shirts, short trousers, grey socks, black boots. They were standing in a clearing in the jungle, white-skinned against the dense foliage. The men looked healthy and relaxed, proud even, displaying their trophy for the camera, smiling broadly. Both were making victory signs with one hand; their other hand held their victim aloft by the ankles.

The third man’s skin was darker than theirs. His clothes were torn and bloodied, his eyes forced almost shut by the bloating and the bruising on his face.

‘Oh. Oh, God. What?’

Millicent’s eyes bored into mine. ‘That’s Korea, right?’

I looked at the victim. His features were so distorted that it was impossible to guess at his ethnicity.

‘It could be,’ I said. ‘It’s hard to tell.’

‘No, Alex, it
is
Korea. You didn’t look closely enough.’

And then I saw it. Something about the hair, and the jawline. The white man on the right of the frame was my father. I looked up at Millicent. She nodded.

‘Did you ever see this picture before?’ she said.

So young he was; so fresh of face. I had never seen the picture before. I shook my head.

‘Alex, did you know?’

‘I suppose I knew it was a possibility.’

‘But you didn’t ask?’

‘No. You don’t ask, do you?’

‘You don’t ask? Really?’

‘That could be anyone’s father, Millicent. It was war. It could be your father.’

‘Actually, no. My father burned his draft card. Pretty much the only good decision he ever made. So no, one thing this could not be is
my
father.’

I held the picture up again. How happy he looked, smiling out at the comrade-in-arms who had taken the picture. I wondered if he had shown it to my mother, passed it around during dinners with close friends, whether he had intended that Max should see it. He had certainly never shown it to me.

‘New question,’ said Millicent.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I should have checked the fishing bag before I gave it to Max.’

‘OK, well, we agree on that. On Friday he took it to school and showed it to a boy called Ravion Stamp. Apparently they got in a fight.’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘No, but you
could
have known. Why would you not check? What’s the message here? Like, the men in your family solve problems by violence?’

‘Don’t reduce my father to this, Millicent. This …’ I picked up the photograph ‘… is not who my father is.’

‘Alex,’ she said, ‘I get that this is hard for you. But you
have
to protect Max from shit like this.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’

I could no longer tell where grief for my father began and ended; there were no clean lines around the fear that the police would charge me, nor around the gut-wrenching shock of the discovery of the neighbour’s body, nor the fear that Mr Ashani too would die.

‘The hard bit,’ I said at last, ‘has been trying to do it all without you.’

‘You could let me in a little,’ she said. ‘We could work on things together.’

‘I know,’ I said, ‘you have such clarity. You’re better at this stuff than me.’

‘
We
are better when we work together at things, Alex. You wouldn’t screw up like this. And I wouldn’t …’

‘… seek solace in the arms of other men?’

A wounded look on Millicent’s face. I was sorry as soon as I’d spoken the thought.

‘I didn’t mean that. Please.’

‘OK, Alex. Sure. But can we at least try to work together?’

I looked at the picture of my father, smiling out at his unseen comrades-in-arms.

‘OK, Millicent,’ I said, ‘because I do know you’re right.’

Sitting in the cinema with my father: the helicopters and the flame throwers, the screams of the animals and the children.

It was my father’s reaction that frightened me most. He sat rigid in his seat, as if to attention, and shook me off when my hand sought the comfort of his. The explosions lit up his face, and I could see that he was crying. I sat silently, trying for his sake to be brave.

That was the only time I saw my father cry. When we came home he sat rigid again in his comfortable chair, smoked pipe after pipe.

I should not have asked my father if he was all right. He took off his belt and made me lift up my shirt. Then he struck me eight times across the back with the leather end. I counted each blow. The beating left welts upon my skin but it did not last long, and I did not cry out.

I remember thinking how odd it was that my father had used the belt he had worn as a soldier. He confused me even more as he was putting it into his drawer afterwards; he apologised for what he had done, and told me I was a good boy. He asked me to forgive him, and said he would understand if I felt I had to tell my mother.

I never cried in front of my father. I never told my mother about the beatings, although she must have known.

I was eleven when the beatings stopped. Max’s age.

For a week I worked like a dog. My boss was prepared – grudgingly – to forgive me for allowing my work to slip (he knew that Dee liked me), and I needed his forgiveness. ‘These are people we can not disappoint,’ he said. ‘Do not disappoint them.’

‘Of course not,’ I said. I needed his money.

My day began at seven and ended at two. I saw Max and Millicent over breakfast and over supper. The rest of the time I spent at the production office, dutifully ringing my mother on the walk to the station. In my lunch breaks I briefed the assistant producer, leaving her to set up the American shoot and make arrangements with Dee.

On the Monday Mr Sharpe rang. He wanted to speak to me about Max. I asked him to ring Millicent. She was better at these things, I said, and I had work to do. On Wednesday my American visa arrived, and on Thursday I handed to the edit producer my log of the footage I had seen so far, along with notes for what to do with the remaining twenty hours, which she promised to view over the weekend. If I was stressed or agitated I did not notice.

On Thursday evening I left a long message on Dee’s answering machine; I told her I was sorry I’d been busy, but that I had a programme to finish, and that she could call me tomorrow at home.

On Friday, Dee’s agent rang to express concern. Dee was
a little surprised
to be feeling
so neglected
after what had seemed like such a successful evening at the Sacred Cock. But there had been no feedback.

‘So, I
feed back
to you about the evening I had with Dee? Is that really how this is done?’

‘It’s often said sneeringly, Alex, but it really is true: actors are delicate flowers. They need to be nurtured in order to bloom.’

‘She’s a comedian.’

‘Just as delicate. Believe me.’

‘So how do I bring forth blossom in Dee?’

‘Orchids. Delicate flowers love delicate flowers, Alex. Send her orchids but don’t spend more than a hundred pounds.’

‘A hundred pounds?’

‘Dee’s terribly down-to-earth. But I think you already know that. She says you’re very good at reading her.’

‘Reading her?’

‘Between you and me, she’s got a bit of a creative crush on you.’

‘A creative crush?’

‘A creative crush.’

‘Not to be confused with a crush of any other sort?’

‘No, Alex, no. But creatively she says you make her all moist.’

A pause. As I wondered what to say, Millicent came into the kitchen and lit a cigarette.

‘Alex, it might be useful if I could feed back something similar to Dee.’

‘She’s very bright, and very pretty, and very funny, and I’m really looking forward to working with her. Her charisma will really shine through the screen.’ I smiled weakly at Millicent.

‘Alex, don’t misunderstand me and think me rude, but those things are a given. Of course you are looking forward to working with Dee. I’d like to have something a bit more to feed back to her, if you don’t mind. She’s terribly nervous about this trip, and it’s not as if you’ve worked together before. She’s taking a chance on you, and I think she needs to know that you are a chance worth taking …’

‘I’m just as turned on at the prospect of working with Dee as she is at the prospect of working with me.’

‘Hmm,’ said Millicent. ‘Interesting choice.’

‘And that’s great, Alex, but really you need to give a little more of yourself.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Well, with respect, you are really just repeating back to me what Dee has said about you. A bit like saying “me too” when somebody says they love you. You know?’

‘You can tell Dee that I am tumescent with creativity. It’s just waiting to spout forth from me.’ Millicent raised an eyebrow at me.

‘Really?’ she mouthed.

‘Yes,’ I mouthed back. ‘Really.’

‘Yes,’ said Dee’s agent. ‘Tumescent is a good word there. Dee will appreciate your going the extra mile. Thank you.’

‘You’ll tell her, then, about my creative tumescence?’

‘Put it on the card you send with the orchids. Handwritten. Best if it reaches her by 4p.m. OK?’

I hung up. Millicent smiled a mocking smile. ‘Let me guess. That was a business call.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you think they had you on speaker?’

‘I hope not.’

‘You have a weird life, Alex.’

‘Stop trying to make me like you.’

‘Not working, huh?’

My phone rang. Rose. She had given me her number that first day, and I had stored it. I rejected the call. I didn’t want to talk to Rose in front of Millicent.

Millicent offered me a cigarette. I took it, and lit it from the lighter in my pocket. We sat and smoked at the kitchen table. I could feel Millicent’s eyes on me, and avoided meeting her gaze.

On the table my phone vibrated. A text message. Millicent’s eyes widened. I took a drag on my cigarette, studiously avoided looking at the phone.

‘Could be important,’ she said, turning the phone round. ‘Who’s Rose?’

‘The neighbour’s sister. I told you that.’

‘Oh yes. Sure. I’m guessing she’s cute?’

‘What?’

‘And I’m sure she’s pretty, and she’s spiffy, and she’s oh-so-delicate. Just your type.’

‘You can’t talk to me like that.’

She looked back at me, defiant. ‘Alex, we have to stop walking on eggshells. I’m trying to normalise things a little.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘given that you slept with her brother I’m really not sure what the norms are.’

I rolled my cigarette around the lip of a dirty cup. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m trying, Millicent, really I am.’

‘Alex,’ she said, ‘are you surprised these women feel a sense of ownership over you? Like, you have a creative hard-on for Dee. And why is …
Rose
… even texting you?’

I picked up my phone, opened the message.

Coroner has agreed to early release of body. Funeral Saturday 2pm. St Thomas Church. Thank you for your support. Sorry for short notice. R xx

I held the phone up to Millicent.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry for what I said.’

‘OK.’

‘You’re going to go?’

I nodded. She sniffed heavily, looked pained.

‘I guess they released the body. I didn’t know they could do that.’

‘Will you come too, Millicent?’

‘Won’t that be a little weird?’

‘Everything’s weird.’ I didn’t mean to spit the words at her. I was trying hard not to act on the rage that was welling inside me. But there was acid in my mouth, and it was growing harder to swallow it back.

‘Alex, ’she said, ‘you have a right to be angry about what I did, but I need you to listen to me.’

The fury was mounting in me. ‘Bryce
listened
,
’
I said, ‘Bryce
understood
.’

‘He lost a child, Alex. Like I did.’

‘Why does his loss trump mine? I feel the same pain you do, Millicent.’

‘And you are so cloaked in anger since Sarah died. Alex, we grew apart. Yeah, Bryce listened. He let me talk.’

‘That’s
slightly
ironic.’ I kept my voice as level as I could. ‘Because I was trying, Millicent, I really was. But you disappeared into this weird little world of your own making, Millicent. And when you came out, you
moved on
.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I held things together when you fell apart, Millicent.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, Alex, you did. And I will always love you for what you did.’

‘You don’t want help from me, though, do you? Why wouldn’t you talk to
me
?’

Millicent flinched. I realised I was holding her wrist in my right hand. I let go of her, and got up, leaned against the work surface.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘That was, you know …’

‘Inappropriate.’

‘Yes. I shouldn’t have done that.’

We were both fighting the tears. I hardened my resolve and looked away. I wasn’t going to cry.

‘Millicent,’ I said, ‘I’m done trying to forgive you. I’ve tried. I can’t. And I’m sure you’re right, and I’m sure some of it’s my fault, but I can’t accept what you’ve done.

‘Seven years of this, Millicent. Seven years of Frisbee in the park and wordless hatred in the home. Seven years before Max leaves home. Just imagine how much we can mess each other up in that time.’

She made as if to say something, but I cut across her again.

‘Your cute and adorable son,’ I said, ‘thinks you’re a bitch, by the way. It was hard to know what to say.’