The Boy That Never Was (25 page)

At first, there were tears. They came regularly. Garrick learned to read the signs. That watchful look that came over the boy, the stony silence that would suddenly grow up
around him, and then a frown line would appear and his lower lip would turn out, his face rapidly becoming liquid as the crying took over. Questions about his mother, about his father, about his home. The insistent tone, the tantrums. Flailing limbs lashing out, bursts of shocking violence. Every time it erupted, they would wait it out. Eva was better at it than he was. She would stay there, murmuring words of comfort, soft noises to calm him, purring terms of endearment, pet names that she had, until then, reserved for Felix. Often, Garrick found that he couldn’t stay and listen to it. He had to walk away. But not Eva. Never once did she crack. Her resolve was stronger. The tenacity she showed in the face of such overwhelming grief, anger, and confusion was fascinating. He watched her with a kind of frightened awe, ashamed of his bouts of cold feet, his trembling admissions of doubt. But all she had to do was remind him of that night in Tangier to pull him back to her.

‘He left the boy alone,’ she would say coldly, and all at once he was back there in that room, the walls quaking and crumbling about him, looking down at the small shape of the boy, drugged and abandoned, alone as the earth fell. He remembered it and sucked in his breath. It was as if some other force were at work, as if there were a reason why he’d been in Tangier that night, a design that had brought him back to Cozimo’s, that had drawn him up the stairs like a thief in the night and sent him running through the crazed streets clutching the sleeping child in his arms.

They answered Dillon’s questions patiently. His mum and dad were not well, and they had asked Eva and Garrick to mind him. No, they did not know when he would see them again. No, they couldn’t call on the telephone – it was not possible. And then they waited for the crying to abate, and they would shower him with affection and spoil
him with gifts, a tremendous effort to fight the tide of his grief and confusion. They were in too deep now to go back.

‘Remember the holiday we had in Oregon?’ Eva said to Garrick one night.

It had been a bad day. The boy’s tears had erupted several times, and Garrick had felt all day on the verge of giving in and surrendering Dillon to the authorities, confessing to his crime, ending it all there and then.

‘The last one,’ she said, clarifying.

He nodded. Of course he remembered. The last holiday before Felix got sick.

‘Remember how we were in the car, on the road three or four hours already, when Felix started to wail in the backseat? He had forgotten Bo.’

He smiled at the memory. A sad, nostalgic smile. Bo, that grubby, greasy, mangy-looking stuffed cat that Felix had inexplicably formed a passionate attachment to.

‘The panic that came over us – don’t you remember?’

‘I remember. I nearly crashed the damn car.’

‘Right! We were both so freaked! What were we going to do without Bo? How the hell were we going to handle Felix for a whole month without his beloved Bo?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And it was hell at first, wasn’t it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘All that sobbing and wailing. The sulks and tantrums.’

‘He got over it, though.’

‘He did. And quickly too,’ she said, with a brightness in her eyes. ‘After the second week of the holiday, he didn’t even mention him. And by the time we got home, it was as if he had never had Bo. He was clean forgotten.’

‘Eva,’ Garrick said, serious now, keeping his voice quiet, and yet the warning was still there. ‘This isn’t some stuffed toy we’re dealing with. They’re his parents.’

‘
You’re
his parent,’ she replied, quick as a flash.

Just as quickly, she looked away.

He reached for her hand, held it in his, and let the silence drift in around them.

It was understood between them, anyway. As time passed, memory would fade, and those thoughts the boy had for his parents would diminish. He was only three years old. He would forget.

Weeks passed. They moved on. Every time they crossed a border, he felt his hands grow sweaty, a narrow band of tension tightened about his skull. They were careful not to use Dillon’s name when addressing him. They never slipped up.

Their house in the States was put on the market, the decision made: they were not going back. A distance had crept in between them and their families, their friends. They had held themselves apart in their grief after Felix. Now they had to explain the boy. Letters were written, carefully worded e-mails, quiet phone calls late at night, when Dillon was asleep. They’d agreed upon a story: Dillon’s mother had died in the Tangier earthquake. It had fallen to Garrick, the boy’s father, to take care of him. There would be raised eyebrows at that, gossip, speculation, the calculation of dates. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out Garrick’s infidelity. But Eva was prepared to live with the humiliation. And he could live with the shame. They had suffered through far worse. And at least, in this instance, there was a point to their pain, something they could both accept, if it meant they could keep Dillon.

A wet afternoon some months after they had taken him. Newly arrived in Canada, where they had chosen to settle in a quiet suburb of Toronto, a place where no one knew them, where they could begin again. In the rental house, Garrick and Dillon sat on the couch, watching a movie they had both seen before,
Finding Nemo.
It was the boy’s favourite. Sitting side by side, unspeaking, an amicable silence gathering around them, they watched. And then Dillon turned to him, a solemn look coming over his face, and asked in a quiet voice:

‘Is my mum dead?’

His heart had seized with sudden fright, and he’d tried to keep his features still and calm as he looked into the boy’s pale and watchful face.

The boy hardly blinked.

Garrick nodded slowly.

‘And my dad?’

‘Yes.’ His mouth dry as dust.

The boy held him there for a moment with that solemn gaze, and Garrick found that he was holding his breath, waiting for the tears to come. But instead, the boy turned back to the movie, and they watched it together on the couch, in silence.

The worst lie he had told. How easily he had done it. It frightened him, in a way – the enormity of it, the untold consequences. And yet, once it was done, he felt lighter somehow, as if the way ahead had suddenly been cleared of a giant obstacle.

The questions dried up after that. Dillon still grieved for them, but it was different now, as if his moods were tempered by an understanding. Slowly, almost without them noticing, a calm seemed to come over their home. Weeks became months. Months grew into years. The steady accumulation of time bringing them closer together, tightening their
bond, fixing it so that it was just the three of them against the world. They had no need of any others.

How long might it have continued like that? Who can say? The writing was on the wall from the moment they learned that Eva’s mother was seriously ill. He remembers the night clearly. Eva pacing the floor, her face wet with tears, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, torn between grief and indecision.

‘You’ve got to go back,’ he told her. ‘She’s your mom. You’ll regret it if you don’t.’

‘Will you come with me?’ she asked.

‘It’s a risk.’

‘After all this time? You still think that?’

‘What if someone sees him? What if someone recognizes him?’

‘What are the chances? And besides, he’s changed. It’s been five years. He looks different. He’s like you now. Not her.’

He let that pass, but he felt the cold, hard silence that slipped between them whenever Robin was mentioned. He gave in to her after that. He had to. His guilt, her grief and the promise they had made each other when first they had taken him: to stay together. The three of them were a family. They would not be separated.

Going through passport control at Dublin Airport, he felt the sweat breaking out all over his body, a prickle of nerves running over his skin. Not until they were sitting in a taxi bound for Wicklow did he begin to relax a little.

Eva’s mother was in the hospital in Dublin, and they spent those weeks shuttling back and forth between the Wicklow Hills and the city. Eva liked to take the boy with her when she visited, but Garrick rarely joined them. His aversion to hospitals, honed during the long season of Felix’s illness, held fast. At first, their excursions into the city made him nervous,
but in time he relaxed, let his guard down. They seemed to exist in a sort of limbo – waiting for the woman to die. They knew it would not be long.

A morning in November. He remembered it clearly. Snow piled up on the verges of the roads as they made their way north, towards the city. Slow traffic on a Saturday morning held up by the road closures and diversions. A protest march. It had taken time to find parking. Then there was the long walk to the hospital. On that day, the old woman was barely lucid, slipping in and out of consciousness. She didn’t seem to recognize any of them, and Garrick’s presence alarmed her.

In the corridor, Eva squeezed his arm.

‘Don’t take it personally,’ she told him. ‘She’s confused, that’s all.’

‘I’ll go get the car,’ Garrick said.

He had planned to pick them up at the entrance, but when he reached the car, he realized that it would take at least an hour for him to drive back to the hospital. The march had moved south, towards the quays, blocking the roads that led to his destination. It would be quicker for Eva and Dillon to walk towards him, and he could pick them up halfway.

And so he called his wife’s cell phone and made the arrangements. One phone call. One snap decision.

In the time it took them to reach him, the damage was done. The slip-up made. After five careful years, all it took was a phone call, and the whole plan came undone.

‘If you believe nothing else, believe this: we didn’t go to Tangier with the intention of taking Dillon,’ he said. ‘That was not what we had intended, however bad it looks.’

A chance came, and they took it.

That was what he told them, when he reached that part of the story.

His voice as he told us his story seemed distant, the tone almost private, as he brought us down the meandering route that led to his terrible act. I tried to listen, Dillon. I tried hard to concentrate, to fix my attention on the story, for it was important to me to know what had happened to you. But the words just fluttered past me, barely brushing against me. In no way did they penetrate the surface of my thoughts. The truth was, I couldn’t take my gaze off you. My eyes feasted on your very being. To see you again, Dillon, to know that you were alive – I felt overcome. You stood next to him – Garrick – with a stillness I found admirable in such a young boy. A grave look had taken hold of your face, and the wariness in your stare pained me, Dillon. I could hardly wait for a time when all of this would be behind you, the healing done. For now, his arm was around you, and I saw your pyjama bottoms peeking out from under your jeans.

Robin’s eyes were on me and, turning to meet them, I could see that the fear was gone from them. Her gaze was steady, sincere, and even though it remained unspoken, I knew that I had been vindicated. She leaned forwards, straining towards you, Dillon; she ached to hold you, as I did, but was frightened of overwhelming you, of scaring you away. I looked at her, experiencing that whole range of emotions, and all the love I had ever felt for her suddenly burst back into my heart.

And then the words dried up. Garrick’s story had reached its end. A silence came over the room. I realized that you
were all looking at me, wondering what I would do, and I remembered with a kind of hot jolt that I was holding the gun. No sooner had I been scalded with that realization than a shadow moved across the doorway, and we all turned to stare at the woman who stood there.

We had all forgotten about Eva. But there she was, her face a pale oval in the gloom. She took a moment to assess the situation, then cried out in fright. Rushing to Garrick’s side, she knelt by you and grabbed you into her embrace. There was something feral about her action, the way she swooped you up into her arms – protective and defensive all at once, like an animal snatching her young from a predator. She turned on me then, her eyes bright and cold as snow, her voice a snarl: ‘You can’t have him.’

We all scrambled to our feet, the air charged with this new electricity, and I felt the gun heavy in my hand, felt all the possibility contained within it, how I could use it to take control. And yet, she had you in her arms, Dillon. I could not wave a weapon at my own son.

Garrick was the first to speak, his tone low and careful.

‘Eva, stay calm, honey. We will get this all straightened out, but you gotta stay calm, okay?’

Only she was well beyond that. Shaking and scared, her eyes brimming with tears, she clutched at you tighter, Dillon.

‘We shouldn’t have come back here,’ she said, convulsing with emotion. ‘We shouldn’t have taken the risk.’

‘Eva …’

‘It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have brought you both with me.’

Garrick seemed reluctant to say anything, but he obviously did not want to see Eva in distress. ‘We agreed, Eva. Your mother …’

She dropped her head and dipped her face so that it rested on your crown, her arms about you, Dillon, and she seemed
to drink in your whole being. In a disquieting way, I suppose, she was already taking her leave of you, already preparing herself for that unbearable loss, trying to gather up as much of you as she could so that she could save her memories of you in these final minutes, to make them rich and solid enough to last a lifetime. I knew all that and felt the slow corrosion of pity working away at my resolve. Dillon, it almost worked.

In that moment, Garrick moved around her, and I had to focus suddenly as he was coming towards me, slowly, carefully, his palms held up as if to show that he meant me no harm. But we were well past that. I tightened my grip on the gun.

‘Not another step,’ I told him.

‘Let them go, Harry,’ he said quietly. ‘The rest of them. Let them go. Let’s you and me sit down together, alone, and work this thing through.’

‘No.’

‘Come on. Be reasonable. Let Eva and Robin take Dillon outside, where it’s safe.’ And then, in a lower voice, he said, ‘I don’t want him here in this room with that gun.’

As he spoke those words, my eyes flickered to your face, Dillon, and I saw how it was pale with fear, and I felt a moment of crushing shame, to think that my actions had inspired that fear. And all at once the years were falling away, and I was back there on that street in Tangier, dust in my eyes, blinking in disbelief at the emptiness, the terrible vacuum that stood in place of my home, my sleeping son.

I bent my head and closed my eyes, passing a hand over my forehead. I was a mess. What a way for you to see me, Dillon. Bedraggled, beaten, sore. I don’t think I would have recognized myself. A hand pressed gently against the small of my back, and my eyes flared open, my hand shaking, and I saw Robin there, leaning into me, her arm about me.

‘Please, Harry,’ she said gently. ‘Let him go. I promise I won’t take my eyes off him. I won’t let her take him. Not again.’

I gazed into the warmth of her eyes and I swear, in that moment, I could have fallen into her arms. She looked at me again, and I could feel the love, the old love. Wherever it had gone, it was back. It was like something physical in my gut, a presence in my blood.

‘All right,’ I said, my voice breaking. It was the thought of being parted from you again, Dillon, even for just a few moments. The thought of you leaving my sight once more filled me with a deep foreboding.

You looked at me, then to Eva and Garrick.

Garrick managed to whisper to you: ‘It’s okay, Dillon. This will all be over soon. Go with Mom. You’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. I will see you soon.’ His eyes widened.

Eva was shaking. I couldn’t look at Robin, lest I lose my resolve.

Eva went to embrace Garrick, and then you looked at him one last time. Maybe you did get on with him, maybe he was good to you, but you did not walk over to him. Instead, you turned and gazed into your mother’s eyes. You seemed to know what was happening.

‘I’ll be okay,’ you said, your voice clear and calm. How brave you were, Dillon. I imagined holding you then for the first time in years. I leaned towards you and took in your every sinew, inhaled the smell from your hair. You did not resist. Even when I kissed your cheek.

‘Dillon,’ I said, but I could not finish what I wanted to say. I was overcome. And then you let yourself be taken by your mother, away and into the night. My heart lurched. I ached, every pore of me ached, at seeing you leave again.

We watched you silently – Garrick and I. He was slumped in the corner by the stairs, one hand pressed against his ruined face. I was by the door. Together we watched the backs of the three figures as they descended the steps, down into the darkened slope of the garden. I had my back to Garrick, which wasn’t wise, but the fight seemed to have gone out of him the moment I’d agreed to let you leave. He seemed spent. And so I followed the shapes of the ones I loved for as long as I could. Distantly, I heard a car, and saw the sweep of headlights across the driveway. But the distraction was fleeting. I kept watching until the darkness swallowed you up – until there was nothing left of you.

You probably want to know what happened then. You may already know. Or you may have worked it out for yourself.

Either way – this is how it went for me.

The car zoomed into the driveway, spitting up gravel on all sides. It drew to a sudden halt, and Spencer got out. His face had a toughness about it, a knowing fierceness, but there was apprehension there, too. ‘Harry what’s going on?’

I knew from the tenor of his voice that he was frightened, and that scared me even more. I experienced a fleeting moment of clarity, as if I had stepped outside my own body and could see precisely the mess I had got myself into. The gun pressed hotly in my palm.

‘Stay back,’ I shouted from the doorway.

He came forwards. ‘Harry, for fuck’s sake, put that thing down.’

I didn’t. Instead, I aimed it at him. There was a scream, a cry of fright. Whose voice was it? Robin’s? Eva’s? For all I know, it could have been my own. Retreating quickly, I slammed the door shut, my hands shaking. Then, leaning
in to steady myself, I pressed my forehead against the hardwood door.

It was almost as if I had forgotten about Garrick.

I had found you again, Dillon. That one thought played through my head. And then the strike came, a sharp blow to the back of my head. I felt it acutely and fiercely, and I dropped to the ground. Blood was pouring into my ear. A soupy, disorientating flow. I lay there, paralysed.

He stepped over me, pulled open the door, and I stirred from my fearful paralysis, tackling Garrick and rolling him on to the ground. I had thought he was spent, but I felt the strength in his body, sinewy and tough. He gripped my arms and pulled me under him, and I reached up and clawed at the wound on his face, causing him to cry out in rage and pain. And I, too, was enraged. Incensed. My ear was full and my hair was matted with more and more blood, and as it dripped into my mouth, I spat at the man who had taken you.

The door was half-open, our bodies jammed against it, and then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw half a dozen Chinese lanterns float into the air.

‘What the fuck?’ Spencer came running towards me and Garrick, but he was stopped in his tracks by the gunshot.

At first I thought it was fireworks or one of the Chinese lanterns exploding into the night. But there was no fantastic spillage of light and magic. Garrick must have prised the gun from my hand or picked it up after it had fallen; I don’t know. But I do know that this time the first sensation was not visual. The bullet went through me so quickly that the first thing I felt was lightness.

It felt like I was floating.

How could the knuckle of lead have done any damage travelling through me so fast, this little package propelled by gunpowder – but it did, Dillon.

And it was amazing, the tumbling mélange of images that came to me then.

Garrick’s face retreated, and Spencer cradled my head in his arms.

Sound and sense revolved into each other and what came to me was the Egyptian boy prince, the boy on a horse, the red flag, the sun and the dry cobbles of Tangier. Your singing, gurgling childish sounds, your whimper and your playful digs. Your night-time embrace, your ‘Dada’ in the dark, your tickles and giggles and rousing temper, your tears and your laughter. Your paint-stained hands in Tangier, Dillon. All of it a boon and precious cargo carried to me then – its happy host.

So now you know, Dillon. That is what happened.

A cold, white day of protest in Dublin is how it started, and as I drifted into another state of being, into the cold embrace of another winter, I was not saddened, Dillon; I had found you after all. Instead, the one burning, shining desire within me as my life left me was to paint one more canvas. Can you believe it, Dillon?

And what is the image, what was the image to be? From whence does it come? My dying imagination or a faint memory of our first times together?

Dearest Dillon, does it matter?