Inconsolable (40 page)

On his second day of shopping he bought a laptop and a phone. The bustle didn't get to him quite so badly, but he slept like he was on Circa that night again. It was dreamless and refreshing. He spent the morning setting up his new gear. He used his full name to set up with, but everywhere he could he defaulted to the user name Drum, adding the year, his age, when that wasn't enough security.

After that it got harder. After that it was both less personal and more personal and he was more inclined to sit and read than get on with the plan. The plan might fail and if it did he'd be lost and running all over again.

There were things he could do without leaving his room. He spoke to his lawyer for the first time in two years. He refreshed his memory on how the trust was set up, the seven charities it provided a quarterly donation to, and what flexibility he had to make changes to that. He organised an allowance for himself. He'd need it if he was going to live a more normal life to go with his haircut and his new clothes, with his digital identity and his stumbling new ambition.

He phoned his real estate agent and gave him a new brief. He needed somewhere to live. Private, quiet. If possible with a view of the sea. He'd take a fixer-upper. He had a place in mind.

He might've been describing the cave, except he wanted walls, a roof, a kitchen. He wanted running water and heating. When it rained he wanted to stay dry. When he was thirsty he wanted something cold. He'd buy furniture the old-fashioned way, retail, after shopping for it, and stock his cupboards with supplies to last more than one day.

He hung up and anxiety put tight bands around his chest. It hurt to breathe.

The haircut, the clothes, the electronics, talking about the trust, they worried him less than the idea of a salary and property. He could walk away from possessions, give them away easily, like he gave away his earnings, but taking income from the success of Circa and having somewhere to be every night, somewhere to work from, and eat from, and feel connected to, that was a different kind of future.

It helped determine what kind of man he was going to be. One who could deal with the lack of absolutes, who managed all the variations of grey, one who was kind to others.

It no longer made sense to be homeless and without money when he had alternatives. He could live like minor royalty, or he could be an imposter and live like people who had no choice. There had to be a middle place between hand-tailored suits and off-the-rack, between a cave and a mansion, between cash for odd jobs and genuine wealth, but he wasn't sure where that place was yet.

What helped was re-engaging in therapy. In figuring out there were better ways to honour the dead than reciting their names and burying himself with them.

What helped was looking for Foley, finding her online, seeing evidence of her safe existence. Though her footprint was small, she was there. An outdated Facebook page, a Twitter feed last filled with photos of the Kite Festival months ago. He felt relief like the balm he was using on his face take the sting out of his craving for her.

It was on council's website he learned the most. The new job, Acting General Manager. She'd taken Hugh's job, she'd leapfrogged the dreaded brown-eyed Gabriella who wasn't listed at all. Foley was living her life, working her dreams. The ache in his chest on learning that felt like pride. Her contacts were listed. He almost emailed her. He almost called.

But he had no right to disturb her peace of mind.

He made another call that weighed on him. A private number he hadn't used in years, but still remembered.

“Alan Drummond.” Said neutrally, officially. He wouldn't recognise the number calling.

“It's Trick.”

There was silence, thick with anticipation, heavy with trepidation, and then his father said. “Oh thank Christ,” and Drum heard the agony of tension in his voice. “I thought I'd lost you. After I went to the house, I searched. That damn real estate broker, your blasted lawyer, they kept your secrets, but then I suppose you gave them very little to go on. Where are you? I'll come and get you.”

“You looked for me?” He hadn't expected that.

“Yes, once I knew you hadn't gone adventuring, but you didn't leave me any trace and I didn't know how to contact the woman at the house. She had an unusual name but I was so shocked about you, so worried, it went clear out of my head. Something like Finola or Felicity, but that's not—”

“Her name is Foley.”

“Are you still with her?”

“No.” His own voice might've broken if he'd had to say more.

“You sold the house, like you sold everything you owned. Where are you?”

He was halfway between grief and forgiveness, between blame and acceptance. He was fighting his way back to something more normal. It gave him indigestion and it fed a kernel of something he'd not felt in a long time—excitement. “I'm in the city.”

“Come to my place.”

“No.”

“Then I'll come to you.”

“No.” He modified that. “Not yet. I need time to acclimatise. I've forgotten what all this is about, how I'm supposed to act.”

“Are you, do you…” Alan's voice broke as his sentence fell apart. “I'm so glad to hear from you. How are you feeling?”

Scared, hopeful, wretched, nervous. Like the first day of school, like his first kiss, like the day he flew solo, like the day they got approval to market Circa, or when they listed NCR on the New York Stock Exchange. Like meeting Foley, like losing her. There was no way to answer that question.

“I'm better.”

“More like yourself?”

“Only in some things. I'm going to be different.” He was different already, more wary, more jaded, more hesitant, more prepared for things to go wrong. Less bulletproof. And under that, so lonely, desperate for attention, for affection from the one woman he'd ever truly loved, who'd ever truly tried to understand him.

“Do you want your job back? We could make that happen if you wanted it, if you were ready. Or anything, really, you wanted to do. It's still your company, Trick, as much as it is mine, if you want it to be, or does that thought still sicken you?”

Not any longer. Since Melissa, since the train ride, since the kindness and the Anzac biscuits. Since Foley made him hope things could be different and he'd started to see how he could make it so.

“Are you still there, Trick? I'm not sure what you expect from me?”

Only what Alan could give. And he didn't need a job. He didn't need forgiveness, or contrition or acceptance either. He didn't need his guilt assuaged or his ego stroked. All he needed was permission, agreement; the rest he'd do for himself.

“I don't expect anything from you. The terms of our agreement stand. I can't sell my shareholding except in the event of your death or a takeover. But I want to talk to you about an idea.”

“Of course. If you're well enough. If you're ready. You let me know and I'll make the time available.”

“Thank you.”

“Don't thank me, Trick. Just come home. I know you think I let you down, not supporting you, but I thought you'd come around. I thought you'd go off and sulk when you didn't get your way, spend money, live it up, and eventually you'd forgive me, get bored and come back. I didn't know, I didn't know about how, well, how hard you took it. I'd have tried to find you sooner. If it wasn't for the newspaper report I … I'm just so glad you're back.”

Drum ended the call with a promise to be in touch then spent a few weeks walking around in his new skin, part Trick the kid who collected strays, part Patrick, the successful businessman, part Drum, the man who'd been frightened of hurting people and managed to hurt the person he loved the most.

He didn't know how to reconcile that last part, whether it was healthier to cut the hesitant, suspicious hermit squatter out of his new life and not look back, or to take what he'd learned from living rough and let it warm his future.

He walked a lot. He watched people, listened to them. Heard hunger and worry, laughter and friendship in their talk. He would never have done that in his pre-Drum days. He'd never have noticed how tired the woman with the twins was, how pin-eyed the schoolgirl was, wired on something she was too young to be using, or how proud the pavement chalk artist was, and how in need of the coins in his hat. He saw those things through Drum's eyes and it helped him understand he needed to be Drum as much as he needed to be Patrick and Trick to be whole again.

He could put himself together again, be a functioning person, but he needed one more thing to be happy. Foley. And he had to be worthy of her. He had to hope she'd give him a chance to show he could change, had changed, that he'd been worth her commitment. That if she wanted it, they could be friends again. He couldn't hope for anything more.

But he was prepared to fight for it.

He moved from the cheap hotel to a serviced apartment. He could cook his own plain meals that way and it was cheaper. He was a very different man settling his hotel bill than the one who'd arrived.

He worked on his idea, had dinner with his father. A restaurant for that first time. The menu was a puzzle, ingredients he'd never heard of, styles that hadn't been around last time he'd spent a small fortune on food. He got the permission he wanted and a queasy stomach ache from the richness of the meal.

He bought Foley's falling down house. The one she wanted to save. He wanted to save it too, and it was something he could do for her. It stood on a cliff not too far along the coast from his cave and it faced the sea. He had a builder draw up restoration plans and submit them to council for approval.

Six weeks later, on the morning of the afternoon he was to present his idea to the board, he got up early. He was nervous. He was about to meet his new cliff edge, one he'd designed and felt passionate about, but to win he had to be prepared to jump.

Last time he'd stood in front of the board he'd tried to convince them to shut down production of Circa, to turn the company's efforts to making a different drug, any other drug. He'd gone into that sparkling glass-walled room with its sweeping harbour views, its long table and the smell of fresh rich brewed coffee and he'd tanked.

He lost the argument. He lost control of his emotions. Shouting at them, thumping the table. Melting down in front of people whose trust he needed to lead the company. He lost faith in them, he lost their respect, and by the end of the day he'd lost his job and begun the process of unwinding his life. A month later he'd found the cave and stood for the first time on its edge, seeking absolution and answers.

He needed a very different outcome today.

He caught a taxi to the beach. The lure of that cliff edge was a tangible thing. As real as the clothing he dragged on. He stood on the shore for a long time looking up at the rock face. From this distance, he could only see the two ledges, not the cave itself. The man who'd needed that place was hurt and confused, angry, and determined to punish himself for failing. He didn't feel the same way now. Those emotions were still there, he could call up the sense of apprehension that led him to believe his ambition had hurt so many people and he'd needed to stay away from the world so as not to do it again, but they didn't cripple him anymore. They gave him strength.

He ran as the sun came up. Every slap of his feet on the sand he imagined Foley beside him, but if she was still running it'd be at the other end of the day. Still he thought of her chasing him, and then he went in search of friends.

He found them, waking, rolling out of blankets and scratching their heads in annoyance at the man disturbing them.

“Fuck off,” said Blue. “We're not a side show.” He pulled his blanket up under his chin and scowled.

“We are if you want to donate,” said Noddy. He sat and put a hand on Clint lying close, checking him. “Go away, he's still asleep.”

“How about breakfast,” Drum said.

“Fuckin' hell,” said Blue, recognition in his watery eyes. “We have to get Scully.”

Noddy woke Clint and Blue went in search of Scully while Drum bought the kind of breakfast that would keep these men going all day. Lashings of everything. He paid the closest cafe to serve the men at their usual table at the pavilion, more comfortable for them than the attention they'd attract if they sat at the cafe. If they wanted it, he'd do it every morning.

Scully fed bacon to Mulder and the dog was a frenzy of tail wags. “Knew you were a fuckin' fake. Told that chicky you were.”

“She came looking for you. That dolly bird. Not the one you got in trouble over, the one you were hanging with,” said Noddy.

He'd known Foley wouldn't give up easily, but hearing she tried to hunt him down hit him hard. “I need to make it up to her too.” If she'd let him.

“That what this is, apologising to us for being lying scum?” said Scully. “I read that you're a rich guy. Peddle legal drugs.”

That's what it was. He could've helped these men in the small ways they'd accept. They were strays he'd failed to collect, but like Melissa, he'd collect them now. While they ate he asked them dozens of questions. He learned about Noddy's failed business, his bankruptcy, and the head injury Blue never quite recovered from. Clint had outlived anyone who'd ever cared about him. Scully was too angry for anyone to care about.

Noddy wanted a new coat and boots. Blue wanted an old van. Clint wanted to stay with Blue and he'd like roast pork with crackling and apple sauce once in a while. Scully didn't want anything except for a vet to look at Mully's teeth. They were small things. They were the least Drum could do.

When he left the beach he felt ready to do bigger things. He was on a new edge and ready to jump.

35: Probation

Foley let it get as far as buttons. Hers. Open. She'd made Mark wait a long time for this. She had sexy new underwear on. She wanted it to be special for him. He touched her tattoo and she flinched. And not in a good way.