by James Meek
The night before she’d taken Ritchie’s advice and told Alex that she was expecting, without confessing that she’d been with Dougie and without telling him Maria was pregnant. The news had shocked Alex pale before he stood on chairs and jumped off them, drummed with cutlery on the draining board and spoke wildly about setting out, at last, on the great migration. He shook his head, clapped his hands to his temples, ran his fingers through his hair and hyperventilated. He was struck with panic about the child’s future, about all the things that could go wrong. He called his parents; he wished Harry was alive; he called Dougie, but Dougie didn’t pick up. The whole joyful, ridiculous evening seemed to Bec to have heaped new structures of reality over the secret on which they were built.
She picked off the tape holding the year planner to the wall, meaning to fix it straight, and found herself looking nine months ahead to a point where she would be obliged to clear her diary. She found that this didn’t worry her at all.
Her office phone rang and she let the year planner fall to the floor and went to answer it.
‘Am I speaking to Dr Rebecca Shepherd?’ said a woman’s voice.
‘Who is this?’
‘Are you Rebecca Shepherd?’
‘Yes. Who is this?’
‘I’m calling from the Moral Foundation.’
‘Is that Val Oatman’s website?’
There was a pause, and the woman said: ‘I’m not authorised to discuss Mr Oatman. Do you have a pen and paper handy?’
‘I don’t have time for anything now, I’m afraid. What’s this about?’
‘Are you aware of the Foundation’s work, Dr Shepherd?’
‘I know there’s a sleazy website that does celebrity scandals.’
‘We’re a not-for-profit organisation, set up to make the public aware of immoral behaviour by prominent people. I’d like you to write down a date.’
‘I haven’t got time.’
‘You’ve got to make time, Dr Shepherd. On the twenty-eighth of February, at six a.m., we shall be publishing, on our website, information about immoral behaviour, concerning you or someone close to you. It will concern one or the other, but not both.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have to go.’
‘You can’t go, Dr Shepherd. You have to listen. The recording starts now. Please pay attention.’
Bec heard a beep, then a click and a rustle, and her brother said ‘Hello.’
‘Hello,’ said Bec.
‘Welcome to the Moral Foundation,’ said another voice.
‘Hello, it’s Ritchie Shepherd,’ said her brother, and Bec realised that she was listening to a recorded conversation. Ritchie’s words overlapped with the other voice, which was saying: ‘We’re currently experiencing a high number of calls to our tip-off hotline, and all our operators are busy. Your call is important to you, so please stay on the line.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Bec heard Ritchie say.
‘If you’re a lawyer, please press two on your telephone keypad now. Otherwise, please hold,’ said the voice.
Bec could hear Ritchie breathing.
‘Thank you. To report criminal activity, press one. To pass on a rumour, press two. To report immoral behaviour, press three.’
Bec heard the beep as Ritchie made a choice.
‘Thank you. If you have an authorisation code, please enter it now.’ Bec heard a series of six or seven beeps. ‘Please hold.’
‘Ritchie!’ Val was on the line. ‘How nice to hear from you. What have you got for us?’
Ritchie cursed Val with a roughness Bec had never heard him use. He sounded afraid. ‘Do you want this or not?’ he said.
‘I don’t know what you’ve got.’
‘I’ve got to be protected.’
‘You know how we work, don’t you? I hope you’re doing this because it upsets you to see people do wrong, not because you imagine we’ve got some dirt on you. I like to think you’re concerned about the moral fabric of the nation, and that’s why you’re going to tell me what you’re going to tell me, not because you’re looking out for yourself. That kind of virtue needs to be rewarded. Of course if you tell us what you know we won’t tell what we know about you, if we do know anything about you, and I’m not saying we do.’
A few seconds of silence passed.
‘I’m waiting,’ said Val.
Bec heard Ritchie say: ‘It’s my sister.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘You know her name!’
‘But I want to hear you say it.’
‘Bec. My sister Bec. She slept with her boyfriend’s brother while her boyfriend was in America and now she’s pregnant. Are you satisfied?’
Bec crumpled into a sitting position on the floor, her back against the desk. She no longer knew how to breathe.
‘Is that enough?’ said Ritchie.
‘What’s the brother’s name?’
‘Douglas. Dougie.’
‘Surname?’
‘Comrie.’
‘Got a number for him?’
‘No.’
‘Got pictures?’
‘For God’s sake!’
‘We could pull something together, I suppose. She’s still not as famous as you are. It’ll have to be something like “Exposed: Science’s Not-So-Good-As-Golden Girl.”’
‘Don’t you have feelings? Doesn’t Bec mean anything to you?’
‘Does it mean anything to you that you’re betraying your sister? Or did you give her up because your sense of decency was outraged by her whoring around?’
‘You tortured me,’ said Ritchie.
‘I only torture the people who’ve forgotten how to torture themselves,’ said Val.
‘You made me do it.’
‘It’s sad to see how weak a good British family can become in just one generation. Don’t cry, Ritchie. Be a man about it. Crying only makes you more despicable.’
Bec heard the distant small yelps of Ritchie sobbing.
68
When Bec typed messages to the people she was due to meet, saying that she was unwell and would have to go home, her fingers no longer seemed part of her; they were like wooden pegs tacked to the ends of her arms. In the bathroom she couldn’t wash the look of being hunted off her face. She left the building, near Victoria, and got into a cab. Her phone rang. The number didn’t come up. A woman’s voice said: ‘I have Mr Oatman on the line for you,’ and Bec heard Val say ‘Why do you think he did that?’
‘He said you tortured him,’ said Bec.
‘He did say that, didn’t he. I wonder what he meant. You should ask him why he thought I had the wherewithal to torture him.’
‘And now you’re torturing me.’
‘I’m just the man who’s looking after your conscience. I’m what happens if you do something wrong and keep it a secret and don’t believe God is watching.’
‘You don’t know anything about my conscience. You don’t know why I slept with Alex’s brother.’
‘But you didn’t tell Alex.’
‘I was going to.’
‘And now you have to.’
‘I was going to tell him of my own accord.’
‘But you didn’t.’
‘You didn’t give me time to do the right thing on my own. Who are you to set yourself up as the judge of other people’s lives?’
‘There was a need. If people don’t attend to their consciences where do their consciences go? The Moral Foundation gives them a shelter.’
‘Are you going to write about me on your website?’
‘Why shouldn’t I? So you can keep your dirty secret secret?’
‘I’m going to tell Alex whatever happens. You told me you loved me once.’
‘The Moral Foundation can’t let personal relations get in the way of the truth and goodness.’
‘You keep talking about goodness. What about mercy? What about kindness?’
‘You didn’t show me any, you hedonistic bitch,’ said Val. �
�Now you know what you are. Now you know what you do, when you know everyone’s going to know. Ritchie betrayed you, and you betrayed Alex Comrie. I wonder what your father would say.’
‘But you’re betraying Ritchie,’ said Bec. ‘You said you’d protect him, and now you’re betraying him to me.’
Val’s voice was quiet again. ‘You and your brother should have a nice family chat about all that. You’ll have plenty to talk about.’
‘You’ve got too much malice in you to be a good man,’ said Bec.
‘Now you’re confusing goodness with likeability.’
‘If you’re offering yourself as a God substitute, I hope I never meet God,’ said Bec. ‘As for conscience, I’ve got one, and it works, and I don’t need you or God or my brother or the people who read your filthy website to tell me that I did a stupid thing, and that I have to deal with it. Now leave me alone.’
Alex had switched off his phone while he was in the recording studio and when he came out he saw he’d missed calls from Bec. She’d sent him a text message: When are you coming home? Come soon. Love love love. He texted back to say he would be home in an hour, at five.
A strip of sunlight stretched into the hallway when he opened the front door of the house in Citron Square. He called Bec’s name and was about to go upstairs when he heard her voice from below, from the kitchen. He found her sitting behind the kitchen table in a plain black long-sleeved top. She had her arms tightly crossed in front of her as if they needed to be there to prop her up. She watched him and she blinked rapidly. On the table was an open bottle of red wine and two glasses. She smiled at him without joy. She watched his face sink and his shoulders slump. He looked at the bottle and the glasses and at her.
‘Are you leaving me?’ he said.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I have something to tell you.’
She patted the table in front of her and told him to sit down. It took an effort for her to talk normally, but Alex couldn’t see this.
He sat down opposite her, sitting sideways, only his face to her directly. Bec folded her arms more tightly, squeezing and hunching her shoulders and pressing her knees together. It looked to Alex as if she was trying to make herself as small as possible, when she was actually trying not to shake.
‘What is it?’ said Alex. ‘Are you still pregnant?’
‘Yes,’ said Bec, and her heart beat hard. Time passed and Alex started to say again ‘What is it?’ but Bec interrupted him, raising her voice and imploring ‘Wait. Please.’ A tear rolled down her cheek and Alex, without thinking, gave up his sideways sitting and leaned across the table towards her with his open palms outstretched. She put her hands in his and his hands closed around hers. She dropped her head and rested her forehead on their clasped hands. She drew a deep breath and lifted her head. She looked him in the eye and said: ‘It’s very difficult. Will you let me finish before you say anything?’
Alex nodded.
She gripped his fingers more tightly and said: ‘Whatever happens, you’re the one I love, you’re the one I want to be with, and you’re the one I want to be the father of my child.’
Alex frowned and opened his mouth and Bec squeezed his fingers and went on: ‘I have to confess to you and I have to ask you to forgive me. I did wrong. I thought I had a good reason, but I shouldn’t have done it, and I don’t know whether it’s worse that I did it, or that I thought I could keep it a secret from you. I knew how badly you wanted children, and I knew you wanted them to be your children, and I was afraid if that couldn’t happen, you’d leave me. While you were in America I met Maria by accident. She’s pregnant. I knew Dougie liked me – oh your face, please don’t look like that, it’s so terrible! – and I had sex with your brother once while you were away. And now I’m pregnant. I’m going to have a child, and I want it to be ours, yours and mine, whoever did the … act of fathering.’ She stopped. Alex had turned his head to one side and was staring at the floor with his lips slightly parted.
‘You can speak now,’ she said.
‘Speak?’ said Alex, looking at her as if he’d never seen her before. ‘How can I speak? Is that everything?’
‘No,’ said Bec, and she told him about Ritchie and Val. Alex pulled his hands away and fastened them to his skull.
‘I’m sure I was going to tell you when I didn’t have to, I’m sure I was going to, but now I’ll never know,’ said Bec.
‘Why would he—’ Alex was blindly following what Bec had said. He couldn’t process. The very spars of thought had melted. There was no framework and no feeling. He was nothing except consciousness in a body. He got up and looked around.
‘What are you doing?’ said Bec, coming round the table towards him.
‘I need something to hold on to,’ said Alex.
‘Hold on to me,’ said Bec. She tried to take him in her arms, but he shook her off and stepped back.
‘I can’t,’ said Alex, and the first sense he could recognise coalesced in him. ‘I’m ashamed.’ He backed into the corner of the kitchen, slid down onto the floor, hugged his knees and hid the lower part of his face behind them.
‘Talk to me,’ said Bec, kneeling down beside him and putting one hand on his shoulder. ‘How can you be ashamed?’
‘I’m ashamed not to feel angry,’ said Alex.
‘Remember you’re going to be a father,’ said Bec.
‘Am I?’ said Alex. ‘You should go with my brother. He needs a wife.’
‘I don’t have those feelings for him,’ she said. ‘There was no love in it.’
‘How could you—’ Alex stopped, and lowered his head again. ‘I should be angry with you. I should be angry with him. But I don’t feel angry.’ He looked at her in surprise. ‘If I was a man I’d be angry, wouldn’t I? I’d be violent, hysterical.’ He got up. ‘Look, there it is. It’s too easy for me to forgive you. I’ve got no teeth. No claws.’ He held up his hand in front of his face. ‘I’m not fit to survive. I’m not fit to reproduce. Men like me are bound to step aside. I’m weak. I’m the superfluous product of a soft civilisation. You were right to doubt me. I don’t feel anything except shame that you felt forced to do this. Shame, and shame in the shame, and shame in the shame in the shame.’
‘Do you think I want you to be angry?’
‘I don’t feel anything.’
‘Feeling nothing is what hurt feels like.’
‘What you did made sense.’
‘But it wasn’t the right thing to do.’
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘Because you’re the one I want, not somebody else.’
‘People don’t always know what they want. Hormones have the last word.’
‘You’re the one, not somebody else, and there’s a promise in that, and once I start breaking that promise, everything I say or do is tainted. If it makes so much sense, I should have talked to you about it.’
How did they do it? he thought. In our bed? And it seemed to him that there was something wrong with him for being more curious than enraged by imagining his brother naked between Bec’s legs; the shame came on again.
‘Maybe he thought he was paying me back,’ he said, before remembering he hadn’t told her about the loan. ‘He owed me some money.’
‘I know,’ said Bec, frowning and looking at the floor. She turned back to Alex. ‘How much was it?’
‘A hundred and twenty thousand pounds.’
‘So when your brother agreed to do what I asked him to do, he thought he was returning a debt?’
‘In his mind, maybe.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me he owed you so much?’
‘I didn’t want you to think I cared about money.’
‘So you preferred me thinking you were mean? How could you let me share a house with him and not tell me he was carrying that huge obligation?’
‘Nobody knows. My family doesn’t know.’
Bec shuddered. ‘Did you make a deal with him?’
‘No.’
‘Perhaps you
did without realising it.’
‘No.’ He remembered the riverbank, and decided that he would keep that conversation secret.
Bec’s phone chimed with a message. It was Dougie.
‘He’s on his way to London,’ she said. ‘I don’t think he knows you know. What should we do?’
‘What should we do about Ritchie?’ said Alex.
‘We? Are we still we?’ said Bec. Neither could touch the other any more, and neither knew what to say.
69
That afternoon Dougie had faced an acquaintance and his associate over a small round table in a pub in Shettleston. Between them were Dougie’s half-drunk pint, Smith’s black coffee, McGilveray’s glass of sparkling water, a stack of printed out pages stapled at one corner and a silver ballpoint pen. It was three in the afternoon in Glasgow and there wasn’t much daylight coming in.
‘I’m more of a standing at the bar man,’ said Dougie. ‘The smoking ban had me scunnered. Guy at the bar with a fag, he’s occupied. Got a project.’
‘Nobody ever got paid to smoke in a pub,’ said Smith. ‘Are you going to sign?’
Dougie looked over to where the solitary silhouette of a man moved to and fro across the flashing lights of a bank of bandits. Occasionally he’d stab one of the buttons, never managing to stop the machines’ couthie chatter of grunts and whistles. The only other soul in the place was the girl behind the bar, barely old enough to buy her own drinks, polishing glasses with baffling energy.
‘What happens if I don’t?’ he said.
‘You don’t get the readies,’ said Smith. He reached inside his jacket, took out a white envelope and placed it next to the contract. ‘And I still get your flat in the end.’
Dougie opened the envelope and zipped through the red paper edges with his thumb.
‘How much is here?’ he said.
‘Eight grand.’
‘We talked about ten.’
‘You talked about ten. Folk these days want their lassies skinny and their white envelopes morbidly obese. It’s no my fault the times make it the other way round.’ Smith leaned comfortably back in his chair and clasped his hands over his belly. He and the lawyer were wearing North Face ski jackets, open over their suits and ties.
