Portobello (28 page)

'But what happened?'

'I'd tried to tell him Joel was having this – this delusion. That
he was someone else, I mean. That he was this Mithras and that
he'd dyed his hair and talked in a different voice and all of it.
Morris listened – he doesn't usually listen to me – and he said
quite suddenly, "I'll come with you." I could hardly believe what I
was hearing.

'I thought nothing would change my husband's mind, but hearing
the state Joel was in did change him. He came with me to Joel's
flat and – well, I don't know.' She looked at Ella and looked away.
Her voice was so low Ella could hardly hear her. 'He said – my
husband, I mean – he said, this isn't my son, this is someone else.
We'll take him home with us. It was as if he could never have
forgiven Joel but this man, this
Mithras
, he could accept him. He
has
accepted him. He came here with us quite willingly.'

Ella said stiffly, 'Has Joel –' she couldn't call him Mithras '– has
he seen anyone? A doctor, I mean?'

'The psychiatrist, Miss Crane. She came here.'

'So someone's looking after him?'

'Oh, yes. He's in her care. She's prescribing his drugs and she
says he can stay here. There's no need for him to – well, go away
if you see what I mean. He has two psychiatric nurses, one for
day and one for night. My husband says to spare no expense.
Money is no object. You know how Joel wanted to be in the dark
all the time? Well, this Mithras – I call him what he calls himself
– he prefers twilight. Dusk, he calls it. He says it's always light,
day and night, where he comes from but he doesn't want that yet.
He's not my son any more, doctor.' Tears came into her eyes and
she caught her breath in a sob. 'It's like we've got a spirit or an
angel living with us. I must go in now. But that's what my husband
wants, not Joel but a different person.'

She got out of the car and Ella watched her go. She was sure,
without knowing how she knew, that she would never see any of
them again.

The door to the balcony was open and two chairs set out to
catch what remained of the evening sun. Gemma's washing
was dry. She had long ago taken it in, and by now it had
all been ironed and put away. Though it wasn't yet seven Abelard
was bathed and ready for bed, sitting on Fize's lap being read to.
Any observer would have called it a cosy domestic scene.

'You got anyone coming round while I'm out?' Gemma asked.
She was going to her mum's for a meal and her dad had also been
invited, a rare event but one she looked forward to. He was a jovial
guy, her dad, and when she saw him he usually gave her a handsome
money present for Abelard. 'Who's that, then?'

'A friend,' said Fize.

'Oh, really? It wouldn't be an enemy now, would it?'

'It's Ian.'

Gemma always looked particularly beautiful when she was angry,
her pretty face flushed and her large blue eyes sparkling. She
flicked back her hair. 'I thought I'd said I don't want that shit in
my flat.'

'Don't be like that, Gemma. He's OK. He'll only be here an
hour. We can have a drink, that's all.'

'If he's coming here, Feisal Smith, I'm taking Abelard to my
mum's with me. I don't want him round my son.'

Fize objected but it was really argument for argument's sake.
Left with him, Abelard would expect the TV to be on, another
story to be read, chocolate milk and a banana. He would demand
to stay up till his mum came back. Fize wanted to be alone with
Ian, so he gave in as ungraciously as he could manage while quite
happy with the new arrangement. For most of the day he had been
rehearsing in his mind what he would say to his friend and, for
most of the day, it had seemed quite easy as well as right. Now
things looked different. Ian would undoubtedly refuse and then
what was he to do? Was there perhaps some other way of getting
over this difficulty? Go it alone? He grew cold all over at the
thought. Fize needed a drink. He hated feeling this way because
it wasn't many years since he had given up the abstemiousness he
was brought up to and taken to alcohol. Drinking still made him
feel guilty. Favourite expressions on the lips of his mother and his
maternal grandfather were 'morally wrong' and 'against Islam'.
Sometimes it seemed to him that these days these words applied
to him most of the time. He broke one of their favourite commandments
and, going out to the kitchen to fetch himself a beer, sat
down with it to wait for Ian.

For most of Eugene's day he had been feeling what Dorinda
called 'under the weather', a foolish expression, he thought,
because the day had been what it often was in the middle of
October, brilliantly sunny and clear-skied. Eugene knew that the
only connection his malaise had with any sort of weather was that
he was in a deep depression. He was enslaved to a stupid habit
and he had lost the woman he loved. No wonder he felt weak and
shivery. Probably he had a raised temperature, only he was too
despondent to take it.

But by the evening, his appetite gone, disinclined even to pour
himself a glass of wine, he knew this was more than being depressed.
He must be physically ill. If Ella were with him she would know
what was wrong. He searched the house in vain for a thermometer.
If there had ever been such a thing in one of the bathrooms, Ella
had no doubt taken it with her. Walking, even just standing up,
he found himself swaying and dizzy. The only way to go upstairs
was on his hands and knees and they ached, as did most of the
bones in his body.

He couldn't even find any Chocorange or Oranchoco, although
he was sure he had left behind at least twenty packets when he
moved out. Perhaps they were there and visible, though invisible
to him because he was delirious. Sweat had begun to pour off him,
he could feel it breaking through the pores of his skin. It trickled
coldly down his spine. No longer hot, he wrapped himself in a
blanket, then a duvet, and phoned Dr Irving. As a private patient,
he had the doctor's mobile number and he caught him at a dinner
party.

'Sounds like a virus.' They never said 'flu' any more unless it was
preceded by 'avian'. 'There's a lot of it about.' They always said
that. 'Go to bed, keep warm and drink plenty.' Dr Irving added as
an afterthought, 'I mean dihydrogen monoxide. Water to you, haha.'
It was a favourite joke, often repeated.

Ella had believed it was impossible for anything to shock her.
She had seen too much, witnessed too many sad or wretched
situations, heard too many tales of pain and suffering and cruelty.
But Joel Roseman's condition had shocked her. She had gone to
that bungaloid mansion in Hampstead Garden Suburb, certain she
would find her patient kept under duress, perhaps even physically
a prisoner, possibly maltreated, and she had been prepared to call
the police and tell them here was someone detained against his
will. But she had seen nothing of that, only a man who in any
other period of history would have been described as mad, as stark
raving mad, tended by his mother, the father with whom he was
reconciled, and in the care of one of the most reputable psychiatrists
in the country. She was shocked because she had been so
wrong and because of Joel's pitiable state.

And their encounter had left her feeling nervous and vulnerable.
Alone in the half-furnished flat from which all the books were
gone and most of the ornaments, she longed for Eugene. Now that
Joel was no longer her patient she could have talked to Eugene
about him, described the horror she had felt when this poor man
with his dyed yellow hair talked of himself as an angel or a god,
and described too the pathetic mother, pared down now to a raw
skinless creature who had grown, in so short a time, from absurd
girlishness into her true age. And the grotesque father whose own
daughter had drowned yet who kept a picture of a drowning woman
in his home. Eugene would have listened and comforted and
suggested kind remedies, brought her drinks and kissed her and
taken her out to somewhere lovely. None of which would have
helped Joel but would have helped
her.

She thought of those early evening times in his study when,
over a glass of wine, they had talked about the day that had just
passed. She thought of his cooking for her with greater skill than
she possessed, of their quiet sitting side by side, each reading in
companionable tranquil silence, of their nights and his ardent lovemaking.
It was gone and there was no one. Joel might be mad in
the recognised sense of that term but Eugene's was also a kind of
madness, inexplicable, absurd, utterly destructive.

Ella buried her face in the only two cushions remaining in her
living room and began to cry.

They hadn't named any specific time for Ian to come. They
never made arrangements of that sort. But when it got to nine
and he still hadn't arrived Fize began to get worried that he wouldn't
come at all and at the same time he was relieved. He wanted to
put off what he had to say, yet he knew he would have no peace
of mind until he had said it. But most people are like that. They
prefer the doubt to the fact. Fize knew he was weak while wishing
he were brave and strong, he knew that women liked him because
he was good-looking and nice and perhaps because they could kick
him around. Sometimes he thought that the only bold and daring
thing he had ever done in all his life was set fire to Gilbert Gibson's
house, and while he was pondering along these lines the doorbell
rang.

Ian hadn't brought anything to drink. This was no surprise to
Fize who would have been amazed if he had. Because he was
unemployed and living on the benefit, Ian thought people in work
ought to pay for everything he consumed, drink, curry, fish and
chips. The first thing he said was, 'You got anything to eat in this
place?'

Gemma subsisted on a healthy diet. 'There's bread. There's
cheese and sardines and apples and stuff.' Fize remembered another
foodstuff. 'Oh, and there's muesli.'

'Christ.'

'You can have a beer.'

When Fize came back Ian was sitting on the edge of Gemma's
cream-coloured sofa as if it were made of thin ice. He had never
been there before and was no doubt feeling the way Fize had when
he first met Gemma and was invited back, that he had come into
the showroom of a furniture shop. Everything was clean and brushed
or polished, there were flowers in a vase and magazines placed in
a perfect stack on the coffee table. He had got used to it but it
was going to take Ian a while.

Ian took the can from him reluctantly. 'Haven't you got nothing
stronger?'

'No.' Fize was beginning to feel so tense he could hardly breathe.
Every muscle in his body was taut. 'Listen to me, mate.' He took
a deep breath. 'Listen to me. It's about Lance.'

Ian took a bigger swig of lager than Fize would have thought
possible. 'What about him?'

'He's in jail.' Fize hesitated.

'Surprise, surprise. I
know
that. So what's new?'

'Look, mate, will you just listen to me? He never done that. I
mean burning down old Gibson's house. Burning that Romanian
guy. He never done it. He wasn't there. You know that and I know
it. They could put him inside – I mean, keep him inside – for like
fifteen years, maybe more if he don't admit to doing it. And he
can't admit it on account of he never done it.' Unaccustomed articulate
speech was taking its toll on Fize, exhausting him. 'We done
it, me and you. We got to go to the filth and tell them, mate. We
got to.'

Ian stared. 'You're barking.'

'How're we gonna feel when he's sent down for maybe years and
years and we're whatever –' Fize searched for words '– free, we're
free?'

'Me, I'm going to feel great.'

'I'm not. If we don't tell them now we'd have to then. We can't
let the poor sod go down when he never done it. It's out of order.'
'Is there any more of this gnat's piss?'

Fize fetched it, flipped the lid off the can. Beer foamed over
Ian's jeans.

'Fuck you!' Ian shouted, jumping to his feet.

'It's only beer, for God's sake.' Fize was getting angry now. 'It'll
dry. Listen, we gotta go to them and tell them. Like first thing
tomorrow. Like tonight, if you want.'

'If
I
want? Now you can do the listening.' Ian approached him
threateningly, the can in his hand held like a weapon. 'You forget
all that. Leave it out. It's bollocks, all of it. You better if you want
to keep on the right side of me.'

Courage came to Fize from somewhere. That which he had
dreaded no longer seemed so undoable. 'If we tell them it'll be
good for us. They'll do what they call take it into account. We did
do it, mate, we did set the place on fire.' He was aware that Ian
had set down his beer can and was standing with his hands closed
into fists. 'If you won't,' he said, 'I will. I'll go it alone.'

'You what?'

Ian's voice was quieter and more menacing than Fize had ever
heard it. For some reason he thought back to the evening he had
braved Lance and Uncle Gib together, asking for the money for
Gemma's tooth. He had had courage then and it had worked. But
of course Ian had been with him then, not against him . . .

'I'll go it alone. I gotta, mate. I gotta live with myself.'

'Then I'll have to stop you, won't I?'

Fize saw the knife pulled out of Ian's jeans, the gleam of its
blade, which he had thought might be a gun. It was just as lethal
a weapon, a small knife with a long thin blade. The blade glittered
in the light from Gemma's table lamp. Fize backed away. They
stood confronting each other, the way male animals do, quivering
before one of them makes a move. Ian made the knife in his hand
shift a little, a teasing movement, pointing at Fize, then letting it
droop. He crouched slightly as if getting ready to spring. Fize made
a gasping sound in the back of his throat. He snatched up Ian's
beer can and flung the contents in his face.

Ian's scream couldn't have been louder if it had been acid
Fize had thrown. He swore and scrubbed at his eyes, the knife
still clutched in one fist, giving Fize a moment to escape in.
Fize sprang, kicked over a chair and tried to open the front
door, but his hand was shaking too much to move the latch.
He felt the tip of the knife touch his back, right by his spine,
and he felt it pulled away as Ian drew his arm back to strike.
Twisting round, Fize kicked out, the knife glittering in the air
between them. Then, somehow, he stumbled and Ian was upon
him. He clutched the upraised arm, forcing it back, and sank
his strong young teeth into the hand that held the knife. Ian
yelled and dropped his weapon, giving Fize the chance to
scramble to his feet. His mouth full of bitter, iron-tasting blood,
he threw himself at the front door once more and this time he
got it open.

He was out of the flat, running down the concrete stairs, almost
at the foot of the first flight when Ian caught up with him. Ian's
breathing was terrible, like an engine or a crazed animal. He grabbed
Fize's shoulder, swinging him round, and as he hit out wildly to
defend himself, Fize felt that thin blade sink slowly into his chest.
Not like a wound but like a blow he felt it, a punch to where he
thought his heart was, and then, as his legs buckled and he fell,
nothing more.

* * *

Abelard had fallen asleep on the couch in Gemma's mother's
living room. Gemma picked him up and wrapped him in a
blanket. It was only 9.30 but her dad had said he'd take her home
in his car if she'd come now. When she was in the back seat and
Abelard on her lap – against the law but who would know? – her
dad counted out a fifty-pound note, two twenties and a ten and
thrust them into her hand. 'For the boy.'

'Thanks, Dad, you're a star.'

He dropped her at the kerb alongside the yellow concrete wall
and Gemma carried her son up the steps, through the swing doors
and on to the stairs. In later life she never ceased to be thankful
that the little boy was fast asleep in her arms when she found
what lay on the first landing in a pool of blood. For Abelard's sake,
by a superhuman effort, she controlled her scream and it came
out only as a gasp. Blood was no longer flowing, she noticed that,
her legs trembling. She stepped over the body, let herself into her
flat with a shaking hand and, once inside, the boy half awake and
grizzling, she dialled 999.