Unforgotten (20 page)

Driving out of the city, Hugh left the line of slow-moving traffic to stop at a supermarket and buy some wine for dinner. The choice of reds was limited; there were only two that looked vaguely promising. He was reading the label of a Chilean Shiraz, looking for he knew not what information, when Ray called.

‘Hugh? Where are you?’

‘Shopping.’

‘You’re still in town?’

‘On my way home.’

‘Oh. But I saw your car here. I thought you’d drop in.’

‘I had to get back,’ said Hugh, who couldn’t think of anything worse than dropping into the office.

‘But everything’s okay, is it? I was a bit worried at not having heard from you.’

‘I’ve been tied up. Is there a problem?’

‘Oh no – no problem at all. No, it’s just the house insurance people. They want a bit more information. And then I thought we might try the coroner’s office first thing in the morning to see if there was any progress on the death certificate.’

For a moment Hugh thought his memory must be playing tricks. Though much of the first two days had passed in a blur, he had a distinct recollection of a conversation with Ray on what must have been Friday morning. They were sitting in the Koenigs’ den, drinking coffee, Ray defaulting on a year’s hard-won abstinence to chain smoke, while they went through a list of calls and paperwork. There had been no sudden decision on Hugh’s part to reclaim the arrangements, just a gradual realisation that he didn’t want his life to be taken over by other people, however well meaning. He had interrupted Ray politely, thanked him for everything he was doing, and said he thought he would take on the arrangements himself. He remembered
the phrases he’d used, even the tone, grateful but resolute. But perhaps Ray, still exhausted from the previous day, hadn’t taken it in. Or, in a fit of paternalism, had decided to ignore it.

‘Very good of you,’ Hugh said now, ‘but I’m already in contact with the coroner’s office. And the insurance people – I’m fine to deal with all that now, Ray. So—’

‘But I’m more than happy to do it, Hugh. God, it’s the least I can do! You don’t want all the hassle and red tape. Like the stupid house clearance people. I’ve just discovered they’ve gone and mixed up the dates. They seem to think they’re not coming till next month. Well, you don’t want to be—’

‘I cancelled them, Ray. I cancelled them this morning.’

A pause. ‘Oh.’

‘Postponed them, rather. It would’ve been too soon. We need more time to sort out our personal stuff.’

‘I see. But—’

‘Look, I appreciate everything you’ve done, Ray. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. But I need to do this stuff myself, if only to keep my mind off things.’

‘Oh . . . well, if you’re sure.’

‘I’m sure.’

There was a taut silence. ‘Okay. No problem. I’ll get the papers round to you first thing in the morning.’

Ringing off, Hugh felt a passing guilt at denying Ray his chance to contribute, perhaps even to grieve. Ray had always adored Lizzie in a boyish, hopeless way, an admiration that relied on mystery and unavailability.

Lou was chopping vegetables when he got back to Oakhill. She came forward to give him a kiss. ‘Hi, Dad. How was your meeting?’

‘Oh, all right.’ He lifted the carrier bag onto the side and began to unload the shopping. ‘I’m sorry I was so long. Everything okay?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Charlie around?’

‘He’s just got back from Joel’s.’

‘You’ve been on your own?’

She shrugged. ‘It was okay.’

But he sensed she had been lonely and therefore more unhappy than she need have been, and looping an arm round her he kissed her hair. He watched as she started on the vegetables again. She chopped like a practised chef, keeping the tip of the knife on the board, working the blade so fast over the carrot that the slices fell in a gentle cascade.

After a while she looked up questioningly. ‘Hey,’ she said.

‘Mmm?’

She put down her knife and waited for him to speak.

‘Oh, I don’t know, Lou. I don’t know . . .’

Still she waited.

‘I keep thinking it’s all a bad dream,’ he said. ‘Keep thinking I’ll wake up and Mum’ll still be here.’

She gave a minute nod.

‘And when I’m not thinking that, I—’ But he broke off, not wanting to burden her.

‘Yes?’ she prompted softly.

He shook his head. What could he tell her? That he still blamed himself for having stayed in London, that he felt sure none of this would have happened if he hadn’t left her mother alone, that he felt driven to find out what happened, that he feared he never would. ‘I just miss her so much, that’s all.’

Lou’s eyes welled. ‘Yeah.’

They stood in silence for a moment, then Hugh went in search of a corkscrew, finally locating one in the dining room.

‘You won’t forget about Charlie?’ Lou said when he came back.

‘What?’

‘The hymns and readings?’ she reminded him.

‘Oh . . . Yeah. Sure.’

‘And any computer jobs you need him to do?’

Hugh tried the Shiraz. It tasted a bit sharp, even metallic, but like so many of these cheaper wines it would probably
improve on further acquaintance. He took another gulp or two to find out. ‘I’ll go and talk to him now.’

‘Supper’s in half an hour.’

‘Right.’ As Hugh drained the glass and topped it up he caught Lou’s glance. ‘The doc told me not to drink for a while,’ he said. ‘But I can’t take the tablets, Lou. I can’t take the chemical fog.’

‘You do it your way,’ she said. ‘Don’t listen to anyone else.’

‘Even when it’s a doctor?’

‘Especially when it’s a doctor.’

It had been a joke of theirs ever since she’d decided to apply for medical school, but the smile he won from her now was fleeting, troubled, and he couldn’t rid himself of the suspicion that something he had said or done was adding to her unhappiness.

The throb of amplified music guided him unerringly to Charlie’s new domain. Arriving at the open door he saw that Charlie had wasted no time in imposing his style on the room. The bed was unmade, clothes lay strewn over the floor, the booming music emanated from a hi-fi system wired to four speakers ranged around the room, while at a rectangular table under the window Charlie was sitting in front of two computers, tapping frenetically on a keyboard.

‘Charlie?’

Charlie jerked round and reaching for the volume control turned the music off. ‘Hi.’

Hugh tried not to notice the cigarette burning in a saucer beside the keyboard. Lizzie, who’d tolerated Charlie’s smoking because it was the lesser of the available temptations, had drawn a firm line at smoking indoors. But, much as Hugh supported the idea of a ban, this wasn’t the time to take Charlie to task. It was only tobacco, and Charlie was someone who needed a prop.

‘How are you doing?’ he said.

His eyes back on the computer screen Charlie gave a grunt.
‘I dunno . . . I thought I’d got it. I thought the disk was okay, I mean it
is
okay, like it’s not badly corrupted, you know? Just a small section, not much at all. But the data’s got shifted somehow. And I can’t work out how . . .
where
. . . it’s gone . . .’

Hugh sat on the bed and watched Charlie as his fingers sped over the keys, the absorption in his face, and the concentration.

‘See, even when something gets corrupted there’s like a record left behind,’ Charlie muttered. ‘It’s gonna be here, I’ll find it okay. Just takes longer when you dunno the path names.’

‘Which is Mum’s computer?’ Hugh asked, recognising neither.

‘Wasn’t safe to use. I took out the hard disk, cleaned it up and installed it in this old machine of Joel’s.’ He indicated the computer on the right. ‘And then I’m running everything through this one as well’ – he pointed to the other machine – ‘to make sure I’m backing it up okay.’

Hugh had only a vague idea of what he was talking about, but nodded anyway, glad to see Charlie in his element. Obtaining the list of friends and their addresses wasn’t that vital, they could probably get by without it, but he wasn’t going to interfere with anything that kept Charlie fully occupied.

Charlie drummed his fingers rapidly on the table top and glared at the screen, as though willing it to give up its secrets. ‘Can we get fixed up with broadband, Dad? It’s just I don’t wanna have to go to Joel’s the whole time when I need to download stuff. And it wouldn’t mean getting tied in for ever. There’s like two, three providers you can sign up to by the month.’

Did this mean he was aiming to stay out of college till Christmas? Hugh wondered in passing. ‘Sure. Go ahead and fix it up.’

Charlie attacked the keys again, his mouth clamped tight shut, his eyes staring with concentration, and Hugh hoped he wasn’t getting too hyper. In his early teens he’d developed
bursts of almost manic energy. It was one reason he’d taken to cannabis, he’d told them on one of the few occasions he’d talked rationally about his addictions: to calm his head down.

When he paused again, Hugh said, ‘After supper, how about we all sit down and choose some hymns for the service, eh? And any poems or readings you like?’

Charlie dragged his attention away from the screen and fixed his gaze on the table top. ‘Can’t tonight.’ His eyes flicked up and veered down again. ‘Elk and I are going to a meeting.’

‘Oh. An NA meeting?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Sort of . . . ?’ Hugh added a smile to soften the question.

‘It’s like a Buddhist group.’

Hugh maintained his smile. ‘For recovering addicts or . . . ?’

‘It’s just a regular meeting, I think.’

The silence threatened to stretch out. ‘Well, so long as it does the trick,’ Hugh said. ‘So long as you feel it helps. I mean, if you want to go to a Buddhist meeting or any other sort of meeting, then, hey . . . that’s fine with me. Whatever. And don’t think I’m worried or anything like that. About the drugs, I mean. Because . . . well, I’m really not. And you know I’m here for you, if you ever . . .’ He had drunk the wine too fast, it had gone straight to his head, he felt a little dizzy. ‘. . . if you ever want to talk.’

Charlie gave him an uncertain glance. ‘Sure, Dad.’

Another silence then Hugh stood up and gripped Charlie’s shoulder. ‘Take care, eh?’

Hugh was halfway down the stairs when the music boomed out again, so loud that he almost missed the buzz of the doorbell. ‘Cut it down, will you, Charlie?’ he yelled.

Lou came out of the kitchen and looked at him questioningly.

‘Are we expecting anyone?’ he asked.

She shook her head.

‘It’s probably Elk,’ he said in a stage whisper. ‘Let’s just hope he’s not expecting supper.’

But it wasn’t Elk. In the pouring rain and darkness beyond the porch light, as though uncertain of having found the right address, was a cyclist with a helmet shading his face, waterproofs, and a reflective yellow jacket. The cyclist pulled his bike back onto its stand. Only as he advanced into the light, the rain trickling down his face in glittery runnels, did Hugh recognise Tom Deacon.

Tom stepped into the hall and pulled his helmet off. ‘Couldn’t get here sooner,’ he gasped breathlessly. ‘Had the boys for the weekend.’

‘Tom, I . . .’ Hugh was still struggling to overcome his surprise. ‘Listen, it’s good of you to come at all. I . . .’

Tom was staring at him with such a fiercely pained expression that the rain on his cheeks might have been tears. ‘Christ! Of
all things
. Of all
the sodding things
. . . Wish I could save you this, Hugh. Wish I could save you the grief.’

‘Thanks. I . . .’

‘If there’s a god in heaven, you bloody wonder where the hell he’s gone, don’t you?’

‘Yeah . . .’

‘You got my message okay?’

Hugh racked his brains. ‘Um . . . When did you . . . ?’

‘It was tied to the gate. With the flowers.’ There was an awkward silence punctuated by Tom’s gasps. ‘To the gate,’ he repeated.

‘In that case we’ll have got it. And the flowers too.’ Saying this, Hugh wondered if he’d got it right about Tom bringing flowers. It didn’t seem likely somehow.

Tom said tautly, ‘You didn’t see it? The message?’

‘I’m sure we did . . .’

‘I left it on Friday. I came over specially. It was with the flowers, tied to the gate. I didn’t know where you were. I thought the gate was the best place. I wrapped it in plastic in case it rained.’

‘We must have got it then. We took everything off the gate. We collected all the messages.’

Tom was in a strange panic. ‘You didn’t see it?’

‘I probably did, Tom. But to be honest the whole of Friday’s a bit of a blank.’

Tom glared at him uncomprehendingly before clamping his eyes shut in a gesture of light dawning. ‘ ’Course it was bloody blank. ’Course. Memory’s the first thing to go. Christ, I should bloody remember that, shouldn’t I?’

‘What did it say, the message?’

‘That I’d be here for you,’ Tom declared, as if this should have been obvious. Shrugging his rucksack to the floor, he peeled off his dripping top by grabbing the back and pulling it over his head.

‘You’ve cycled all this way,’ Hugh said.

‘I would have cycled all night if I had to. You know that.’

Hugh took the waterproof from him. ‘But in this rain . . .’

Tom balanced on one leg then the other to peel off his waterproof trousers. ‘I wasn’t going to let you down, was I? No way.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Nothing
to
say.’

Hugh took Tom’s gear and hung it on a coat hook. Returning, he summoned a tone of welcome. ‘What can I get you, Tom? Coffee? Beer?’

He trailed off as Tom came towards him, raising both arms. For a crazy instant Hugh thought he was going to close his eyes and say a prayer, then he thought he was going to make a speech. Only as Tom got closer did Hugh realise it was to be an embrace. It was a stiff, self-conscious affair, Tom keeping most of his body well clear, only their shoulders touching, and Hugh guessed such gestures didn’t come naturally to him.

Stepping back, Tom said formally, ‘Please accept my deepest sympathy.’

‘Thank you.’ Seeing Lou at the kitchen door, Hugh said, ‘You remember my daughter, Lou?’

Tom nodded and said a brief, ‘Hi.’

‘Can I get you anything?’ Lou asked.

Tom addressed his answer to Hugh. ‘Wouldn’t say no to a glass of red.’

Collecting wine and glasses, Hugh led the way into the living room. ‘How were the boys?’ he asked.

‘Good,’ Tom grunted.

‘You took them walking?’ Hugh asked as he worked out how to ignite the mock-coal gas fire.

‘The sports field. Nowhere else to go.’ The lack of a car, the reliance on public transport for activities with the boys was a recurrent complaint with Tom.

‘So . . .’ Hugh said when they were sitting down. ‘Isabel tells me it went well on Thursday, that you did a great job in the witness box.’

‘Haven’t come to talk about that,’ Tom said firmly, from behind a cloud of cigarette smoke. ‘I’ve come to listen. To talk. To be here for you.’ By way of emphasis, he sat forward, resisting the comfort of the armchair, his gaze fixed on Hugh.

‘Well . . . that’s very good of you, Tom. I appreciate you coming, I really do. But, well . . . we’re coping reasonably well at the moment. You know . . . so far as we can.’

‘But you need to talk, Hugh. You have to talk. It’s the best therapy. Believe me – I’ve tried them all.’

‘Of course you have! Yes . . . I’m sure you’re right. But I’m lucky, you know – I have Lou and Charlie, and they have me. We’ve done quite a bit of talking, one way and another, and I’m sure we’ll do a lot more in the days and weeks to come. And sometimes . . . well, you run out of talk.’

‘It’s never good to stop talking, Hugh. It means you’re avoiding the painful stuff.’

‘Very probably.’

Tom said in an intense way, ‘You’re feeling guilty.’

Hugh took a slow sip of his drink while he rehearsed a response.

‘You feel you should have saved her.’

‘Well, yes. That goes without saying. I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t think that.’

‘It’s called survivor guilt.’

‘I know what it’s called,’ Hugh said, not caring to go in that direction.

Tom drew on his cigarette, exhaling smoke as he said, ‘You feel you should have been there to get her out. You feel you should never have left her alone.’

‘Sure,’ Hugh said.

‘You’re trying to punish yourself for the fact that it happened, that’s all. It’s a form of denial.’

‘I’ll take your word for it, Tom.’

‘But you’ll get through it. That’s what you’ve got to keep sight of. You’ll get to accept it wasn’t your fault. You’ll get to accept there was nothing you could’ve done. It’s one hell of a journey, to get that straight in your head. It takes one hell of a lot of therapy. But you
will
get there, Hugh. You
will
get through the guilt.’

The insistent tone, the relentless stream of advice, were getting on Hugh’s nerves. Hearing the clatter of plates through the open door, he longed for Lou to come to the rescue and announce supper.

‘But you can’t do it alone,’ Tom said, flicking his ash into the flames. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

‘A therapist, you mean? Maybe,’ Hugh said, knowing he’d only try it as a last resort.

‘Everyone needs help, no matter how strong they think they are.’

‘I get all the help I need from the kids.’

‘You can’t offload guilt onto other people, Hugh.’

‘I wasn’t suggesting you could. What I meant was, they get me through the day. They give me a reason –
the
reason – to keep going.’ The argument, even the phrase, were oddly familiar, and Hugh realised with a sense of unreality that he was echoing Tom’s words.

Tom said, ‘So, who gets to hear about your guilt?’

Feeling oppressed, Hugh took refuge in a flippant tone. ‘Well, I certainly do.’

‘You’ve got to understand the process, Hugh.’

And why do I think you’re about to explain it to me? Hugh thought, bracing himself with another gulp of wine.

Tom put his wine down. ‘Okay . . .’ He began to count off the points on his fingers. ‘First comes the numbness, the shock, and the
denial
. The refusal to believe it’s true. Yeah?’ He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head a little, the instructor waiting for a glimmer of understanding from his student, and it struck Hugh that he was relishing his rare moment of authority.

‘Yeah,’ Hugh murmured.

‘You might not realise it, but you’re still in the denial stage. Okay? You’re still trying to believe it’s not true.’

Next, thought Hugh with growing tension, you’ll be telling me it gets worse.

‘Second’ – Tom bent another finger – ‘comes the anger.’ He regarded Hugh impassively. ‘And I think you’re already into the anger, right?’

Hugh made a non-committal gesture.

‘Well, it’s okay to be angry. Angry with yourself for not being there. Angry that you didn’t realise she needed help even though you were miles away at the time. Angry with the whole bloody world for letting it happen. Yeah?’

Tom was sounding like a walking textbook. But then after five years’ therapy he probably was.

‘Am I angry?’ Hugh posed rhetorically as the wine took charge. ‘Well, why not? Might as well go the full gamut.’

‘And when you’ve stopped being angry with yourself, you’ll start looking for someone else to get angry with. Someone else to blame.’

Already there, thought Hugh. Just five days and I’m onto stage three. Or were they still on stage two? He’d lost track.

‘You know how it was with me,’ said Tom. ‘It wasn’t just that stupid old man’ – he never mentioned the other driver by
name – ‘it was his fucking doctor for letting him stay on the road when he was a heart attack waiting to happen, it was the car makers for their crap safety features.’

‘You had good reason to be angry,’ said Hugh.

Tom stated with unwavering certainty, ‘You’ll find targets for your anger too.’

‘Not sure who or what I’d be angry with. Apart from myself. And that’s keeping me pretty busy.’

‘You’ll look for conspiracy theories.’

Not trusting himself to answer that, Hugh gave a snorty little laugh.

Tom’s eyes darkened. ‘I don’t mean like international plots,’ he said touchily. ‘I mean like whatever might’ve started the fire. The last electrician in the house. The last plumber. Whatever.’

‘Hadn’t thought of that. Why not?’ Hugh reached for the bottle to top up their glasses.

‘Do they know what caused the fire?’

‘An accident, they think. But the jury’s still out.’

‘They’re not sure?’

‘Who knows?’ said Hugh, setting the bottle back on the table and taking a gulp of his wine. ‘They don’t say much.’

‘How’re you dealing with that?’

Hugh thought, Christ, he’s been among the shrinks so long he’s come to rate his talent as a therapist. ‘Doesn’t bother me.’

‘ ’Course it bothers you. It bothers you to hell.’

Close to outright rebellion, Hugh waved this aside with a swing of his glass.

Tom insisted, ‘It bothers you to hell because you want someone to blame. But that’s okay. It’s part of the process.’

‘Nothing’s going to bring my wife back,’ Hugh said, taking refuge in platitude. ‘So the cause of the fire doesn’t make any difference.’

Ignoring this entirely, Tom said, ‘You might never know what caused it. That could be the toughest thing of all, tougher than having someone to blame.’

‘Wouldn’t be surprised!’ Hugh declared with a sudden smile. ‘
So
. . .’ He made a thrusting movement of one hand as if to move them rapidly forward. ‘What comes after guilt and anger, Tom? What’s the next stage?’

Tom’s frown made his bony face seem more emaciated than ever, the eyes burning fiercely above the skeletal cheeks. ‘I know this is hard for you, Hugh.’

‘Yeah, well, now you come to mention it I don’t know if I don’t prefer denial and make-believe and muddling through with the help of some red wine.’ He raised his glass in tribute. ‘You do at least have the benefit of feeling numb.’

Tom nodded understandingly, as if this were another predictable phase in the official process of grieving. He stubbed out his cigarette on the hearth and reached for the packet to pull out another. ‘Self-medication isn’t always the best way.’

Hugh’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Sorry?’

‘Alcohol.’

‘Isn’t that just a touch of the pot and the kettle?’ Hugh added a smile to lighten the criticism.

‘If I had my time again I wouldn’t have used drink.’

‘You use it now, Tom!’

‘That’s what I mean. It got a grip on me.’

‘Well, hey – each to his own. I’m sure as hell using it tonight and I have to say it feels wonderful.’ Hugh was well on the way to getting drunk and hadn’t the slightest intention of slowing down. ‘So, you haven’t told me what next. The guilt and anger gets to go, does it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘When does that happen?’

‘When you get to accept deep down that there was nothing you could have done.’

‘Aha! Deep down? Not sure where that’s located just at the moment.’ Hugh took another swig of wine. ‘And then?’

Tom’s gaze took on a distant look, as if his thoughts had turned inwards. ‘You keep looking for the person you’ve lost. You keep searching for them.’

‘And after that? Just wondering if it gets better.’

‘Then you begin to get over it. You begin to accept it.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ Hugh said airily. ‘Very glad. Is that what the textbooks say?’

Tom nodded.

‘Must be true then.’

Tom’s expression became opaque, his jaw muscles clenched rapidly, the sinews quivering visibly beneath the tight flesh.

Playing his words back in his head, hearing the flippancy in his voice, Hugh said in a spirit of remorse, ‘Glad for the information, Tom. Don’t get me wrong.’

‘It helps to know.’

‘Sure. And your case taught me about post-traumatic stress.’

‘You’ve got grief reaction.’

‘Yes . . .’ Wishing more than ever that he could escape, Hugh said lightly, ‘Good old Ainsley. He spelt it out to the court, didn’t he? The difference between grief reaction and PTSD. I should have remembered. A good find, Ainsley. Came up trumps. Wowed the judge. Wouldn’t be surprised if his evidence does the trick, eh, Tom? Wins you the jackpot.’

Tom held his gaze unblinkingly.

Hugh signalled another retreat with a twist of one hand. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Grief reaction. . . . no flashbacks, eh?’

‘No.’

‘Except in the imagination.’

‘You don’t get flashbacks unless you’ve seen something for real.’

‘Depends on the imagination, surely.’ When Tom didn’t reply, Hugh argued strongly, ‘Come on, if you have a clear picture of what happened, of what you
think
happened, then it’s going to come back to you, isn’t it? It’s a flashback by any other name.’

‘You recover from grief,’ Tom said doggedly.

‘But not, I think, from flashbacks,’ said Hugh, unable to imagine a time when he wouldn’t be able to picture Lizzie in the smoke-filled bedroom. ‘These distinctions sound great in
the textbooks, but it’s just an attempt to tidy people into compartments, isn’t it? To superimpose a neat model. That’s psychiatry for you. I’d be no bloody good to Ainsley, would I? As a patient, I mean. Refusing to fit into my slot.’