by Sarah Clarke
As Ben looks at his sister’s imploring eyes, his mind flashes back to his first few weeks in this house. Rosie had been so bossy back then – at least she’d seemed that way compared to his nervous ways. She would grab his hand and pull him into the den, talk incessantly and demand he play with her. It could be schools, families, hospitals or zoos. But whatever the game, Rosie would always be in charge. Until the time he refused to play her game. With an anger and force that none of them had expected. She wasn’t so bossy after that.
But this time she’s right; his brainwashed mother isn’t worth it. Ben throws his sister a grateful look, grabs hold of the newel post and hoists himself upstairs. Avoiding confrontation with his parents has been his mantra for years. Why is he forgetting that now?
His bedroom overlooks the garden. It’s the smallest room in the house but has always been his favourite. Rosie has the front room with two large windows facing the street, filled with a collection of Annie Sloan painted furniture. Even from the landing Ben can see that most of it is hidden under piles of clothes, messiness being the one chink in his sister’s otherwise perfect armour. Where Rosie’s bedroom is spacious and exposed, his is compact and private. But that suits Ben fine. He takes off his jacket and tie – compulsory for sixth formers unfortunately – and falls onto his bed. His left hand drops to the side of the oak frame and finds the canvas case that he knows is under there. It would be too risky to open it now, Rosie or even his mother could walk in, but just touching it feels reassuring.
As he closes his eyes, Ben becomes more aware of how fast his heart is racing. He knows he needs to slow it down before he leaves for work, and he doesn’t have the option of weed this time – buying it has always been Jake’s domain. So he forces himself to remember those breathing exercises he found on the internet. Fuck, that had been a low point. Even in the complete privacy of an empty house he’d felt sick researching the subject, and he’d wiped his browser history as soon as he’d committed the technique to memory. But he knows what happens if he lets the adrenaline take control, has been there too many times. He had to get help from somewhere.
As he focuses on the rise and fall of his chest, Ben feels the thud of his heart slowly recede to normal speed and the muscles in his neck and shoulders start to relax. In these moments of calmness, he feels something akin to love for his parents; he knows how much they’ve done for him over the last twelve and a half years. It’s just a shame that calmness isn’t a state he finds himself in very often.
With a small sigh, Ben checks his watch. Time to get ready for work. He sprays some deodorant across his upper body, then changes into jeans and the required plain white T-shirt; he would add the Bittersweet apron once he arrived at the café. He pauses at his bedroom door for a moment, then retraces his steps and grabs a small navy rucksack from inside his wardrobe. After his day, he might need it.
Taking care not to alert his mother, who is still busying herself in the kitchen but now with a glass of wine by her side, Ben tiptoes down the stairs and out of the front door, quietly pulling it closed behind him. The temperature has dropped in the last hour and he shivers slightly in the breeze. But he likes the cold air against his skin so decides to make the ten-minute walk across West Hill and onto Old York Road without a coat.
*
‘Hey! It’s Posh Boy. Grab an apron, Ben, and clear those plates.’
Ben gives Marco a half smile, and wonders, not for the first time, where his bouncy manager gets his energy from.
‘The after-school rush was crazy. And Hana’s crazy too. I mean, how can you forget how to make an extra hot skinny decaf macchiato?’
‘I didn’t forget, arsehole!’ the diminutive Czech barista retaliates. ‘He asked for a flat white. Not my problem the guy’s got dementia.’
But the lanky Italian just erupts into laughter while simultaneously pirouetting on his white Converse trainers to face the next customer in the queue. ‘Please accept my sincere apologies for my colleague’s terrible outburst, madam. Now what can I get you?’
Ben smiles as he walks behind the coffee bar and retreats into the small kitchen at the rear of the café; he likes the easy banter of his work colleagues. He hangs his bag on a peg behind the back of the door – it’s more public than he would have liked, but in the year he has worked at Bittersweet, no one has ever thought to look inside it – and pulls off a long grey apron, embroidered with the café’s name.
The next couple of hours are busy for the team. The clientele is mainly made up of tired mums choosing the easy option for their children’s tea, while sneaking in another latte or even a bottle of the craft beer that they’ve recently started selling. There’s also a steady stream of commuters stopping by for a pick-me-up, or the opportunity to send those awkward emails without the risk of colleagues reading the sordid details over their shoulder.
But by 8 p.m. the crowd is starting to thin out and the students with their laptops and single-shot Americanos don’t need much attention.
‘Smoke?’ Marco proffers a packet of Camels towards Ben.
‘Yeah, thanks.’ Tobacco doesn’t give him the release that weed does, so he’s still not sure whether he smokes to relax or to rebel, but the addiction is developing nicely either way.
‘Hana, you’re in charge. If anyone orders a macchiato, we’re just outside.’ The two young men disappear out of the back door to the sound of Hana’s indignant cries.
‘You got any plans for New Year, Posh Boy?’ Marco asks, breaking the silence that the task of lighting up against the damp November night has created. ‘I’ve got some friends coming over from Italy; thought we might head up to Edinburgh. You want to come?’
Ben stays quiet for a moment, considering the invite. He likes his manager at Bittersweet, his easy-going manner and hedonistic attitude. And he would love to go to Edinburgh, see Hogmanay in its spiritual home. But the thought of being with a group of strangers exhausts him. And of course he can’t be sure that he wouldn’t end up doing something that even his streetwise manager couldn’t save him from.
‘Sorry, man. I have plans.’
Chapter 5
Phoebe
I fumble with my coins. Six pounds fifty for a glass of wine. I only gave her a fiver and suddenly I’m all fingers and thumbs as I try to find the difference. Eventually I find the right change and pick my glass of house red off the bar with an apologetic smile. There are a few spare tables, so I choose one in the corner and sink down onto the accompanying bar stool, its deep red cushion proving a welcome comfort after a day on my feet. I take a large gulp and enjoy the feeling of the wine travelling through my veins. At least that’s how it seems as my shoulders relax and my brain buzzes.
And I need it this evening. Being moved on by that security guard this morning unsettled me – if I can’t wait outside schools without being noticed, how am I supposed to find Charlie? After retreating from Hollybrook, I’d wandered around Wandsworth Common for a while. The large green space is split in half by a railway line that carries people from the south-west of the country into Waterloo, and the track is set about thirty metres below the Common. The higher vantage point had felt quite empowering, so I’d leaned my forehead against the iron railings for a while, watching the blue and red trains hurtle by.
Beyond the railway, I could see a grand period building surrounded by more modest structures. I recognised it as Wandsworth College, a private secondary school that is on my list, but not one I’ve prioritised. Even when life was on an upward swing, I could never have imagined living in that world of stiff collars and cricket teas, not with my bohemian upbringing. And though Charlie is part of a different family now, I can’t believe he’s travelled that far from his roots.
The pub is getting noisier and I watch a group of twenty-somethings slide into a nearby booth, grand goblets of gin and tonic in their hands. They bump shoulders and lean into each other, and their easy movements remind me of when I was that age – before I met Dan and life became a little more
grown up. At 18, I’d seen the chance of a steady wage as an escape route from my chaotic home, so had convinced Paul’s agent to give me a job. While I could never have followed my parents into an acting career, as much for my lack of talent as anything else, theatre was the only world I knew, so it made sense to stay involved. By my early twenties, I was partying hard and had racked up a string of scandalous stories to entertain my friends with in London boozers like this one.
‘Another one?’ the bartender asks, hovering over me with a leaning tower of dirty pint glasses in her hand. I shouldn’t really have a second drink. The first glass has done its job and relaxation is already turning to exhaustion. But I can’t face going back to my parents’ house just yet, so I nod, mumble thanks, and hand over another fortune. She then turns to ask the man sitting at the next table, and I notice him for the first time. Headphones cover his ears, and he’s staring at his laptop. As she leans down to get his attention, I wonder why he’s here, oblivious to the atmosphere that I’m soaking up. But as I scan the room, I realise there are a scattering of other young people sitting alone, having replaced friends or partners with various pieces of tech. This would have been bizarre behaviour when I was their age, but it’s normal now. Change can happen like this, a stealthy creep that you never really notice. Or it can hit you like a juggernaut and knock you off course forever.
Two of the twenty-somethings – a boy and a girl – shift out of the booth, both armed with a packet of cigarettes and a coat. I stifle the urge to go with them. I haven’t smoked for over a year now, but it was a regular thing for more than a decade, and the craving is never far away. Smoking kills it says on the packet now. But for someone who’s spent the last fourteen years wondering if they’re better off dead, it’s not much of a deterrent.
The bartender arrives with the wine, and as we catch eyes, I see the familiar mix of curiosity and apprehension in her expression. My combination of dark brown hair and blue eyes has always sparked a level of interest, but I know she’s seeing beyond that. Now my eyes emit a wary glow, and my once open expression has folded inwards. For years my natural urge was to please people – my parents, Dan, Charlie – but then I left them all behind, and it seems their absence has left an indelible mark on my face. I try to soften my features with a smile, and after a moment’s pause, she returns it.
As she places a full pint of lager on the table next to me, the man removes his headphones and I hear him say thank you. His voice is light and melodic, and it makes me think of water trickling over pebbles. I suddenly feel bad for my earlier disapproval and smile at him.
‘Hey.’ He raises both his pint and his eyebrows, his smooth forehead wrinkling for a moment.
I mirror his toast with my wine glass, then turn away. I used to love meeting new people, widening my network of experience or opportunity, but not anymore. However, he doesn’t pick up on my cue, and keeps on talking.
‘Listen, I’m desperate for a fag. I know it’s a disgusting habit.’ He raises his hands in a half shrug, half gesture of surrender. ‘But would you mind keeping an eye on my laptop while I nip out?’
I look at the sleek rectangle of grey metal, the slight indent of the Apple logo shining on the top. ‘No problem,’ I hear myself saying, and then he smiles, and places it in front of me.
‘Great, thank you. I’ll only be five minutes.’
I watch him pick up his jacket, then head towards the pub door. I look down at the laptop and my fingers itch. It’s not like I haven’t searched for Charlie online before, typing a concoction of different terms into Google, ghosts hovering over my shoulder all the while. But since I’ve been back in London, I’ve felt a fresh urge to try harder. I wasn’t surprised to discover neither Flora nor Paul had invested in a computer since I’d been away, and my old Nokia isn’t set up for Wi-Fi or internet either. So this is the first chance I’ve had in a while.
With one eye towards the pub door, I slowly lift the screen lid. Google Chrome is already open and there are three tabs displayed along the top. YouTube. Soundtrap. iTunes. Perhaps he’s a singer. With the thud of my heartbeat getting louder, I click open a new tab and consider what to type. From what that social worker told me, there’s no point in trying Charlie anymore. With a sigh of imminent failure, I type 17-year-old boy Wandsworth into Google, but all that comes up is a local knife attack and a disability initiative from Wandsworth Council. I swap to an image search and scroll down the page, but still, I come up blank.
In a fit of frustration, and perhaps indulgence, I type Dan’s name into the search engine. Another toxic habit of mine, but one I’ve not managed to give up. There are the same news articles about him, nothing too in-depth; perhaps he wasn’t young or beautiful enough for his death to be headline news. It’s a relief really. I can’t stand the thought of Charlie searching for information about his real father when he finds out his name and being confronted by the graphic details of his injuries. How he lived is a much better story.
I should close the laptop really. The man could be back from his cigarette break any moment. But I can see Dan’s Flickr account listed on the page and I can’t bear to miss this chance. I scan the room again, then click the link and fill in his login. I haven’t done this for so long but the details are easy to retrieve from my memory, sizzling in the rush of adrenaline that’s cascading over me. The page opens and I stare at the most recent photos uploaded. The last time my family was together, happy. Charlie with ice cream smudges, and Dan’s bronzed torso, his wedding ring glistening in the sunshine. Chocolate-brown eyes and wide, generous smile.
I reach forward and let my fingertip gently trace the outline of his face on the computer screen. I wish we could go back there, before the violence and loss that erupted so soon after. My eyelids blink back tears.
‘So, um, thanks for looking after my laptop.’
I slam the lid down, a gasp escaping before I can stop it. ‘Sorry, I was just checking; I hope you don’t mind; you see, my phone broke.’ Excuses swarm out of my mouth, like bees drunk on pollen.
‘Don’t worry about it.’ He wafts them away. ‘My identity’s not worth nicking. Not yet anyway.’ He grins then and retreats to his seat, lifting his headphones back over his ears. How can people be so easy-going? I think about my brittle exterior, how life has hardened it, and tears threaten again. Charlie is the only person who can soften my shell, and at this rate, I’ll never find him.
I drain the rest of my drink and make sure I avoid any more eye contact as I scurry out of the pub. With wine sloshing around in my stomach, I stop at the Sainsbury’s Local and buy a couple of discounted sandwiches. I need some solid food to mop it up. Devouring them as I walk the last mile back, I wonder why my parents never feel the urge to eat. How they can just drink all day without craving something more substantial.
It’s almost ten o’clock when I get home and everything is quiet. I take off my coat and head into the kitchen, praying there’s milk in the fridge for a cup of tea. I’m in luck. I don’t check whether it’s in date but at least it’s neither yellowed nor lumpy. As I stir in two spoonfuls of sugar – a habit I picked up after Dan’s death and never managed to give up – I also try to stir up some resolve inside me.
I wish I could tell Flora about my search for Charlie. If I got her excited at the prospect of seeing her grandson again, that would give me the extra push I need to keep going. But after that visit from the social worker, their friendship revealed, I can’t risk it. It was the children’s guardian from Cafcass that recommended against leaving Charlie with my parents – their dependence on alcohol probably all too plain to see – but Paul and Flora never tried to change the court’s opinion. Perhaps they were secretly relieved to have the decision taken out of their hands.
With my tea drunk and mug rinsed, I turn back towards the stairs. Suddenly there’s a loud THUD followed by the sound of broken glass, then distant retching. I take the stairs two at a time. My parents’ room is at the front of the house and the door is wide open.
I see my mother lying on the floor, face down in her own vomit. A shard of glass is sticking delicately into her forearm and there’s a thin line of blood trickling towards the carpet. She’s laughing, spitting out the remnants of her sick with each giggle.
‘For God’s sake, Flora! You can’t just lie there. Get up, woman!’ Paul is barking orders at her, but I know his harsh words stem from worry rather than anger.
‘It’s all right, Dad, I’ll sort it.’ I can’t help calling him that; he looks so old and vulnerable.
‘Phoebe, darling. I didn’t want you to see her like this.’
‘Trust me, I’ve seen worse.’
‘But she’s your mother. She’s supposed to look after you. Not the other way around. What must you think of us?’
I stare at the faded pyjamas covering his skinny frame; his small potbelly so out of place against the rest of him that I can’t help thinking it’s not physically attached – like a prosthetic he’s trying on for a new part. His hairline has receded, but what’s left is still thick and a lustrous shade of grey.
‘We are who we are,’ I respond vaguely. I wouldn’t tell him what I really thought of them. ‘You take my room. I’ll stay with Flora tonight.’
After a slight pause, Paul backs out of the room. He’s failed too many times to think he can make a difference now. Alone with my mother, I manoeuvre her into a sitting position. I find an old hand towel in a dusty chest and gently wipe the sick off her face. This will have to do. I can’t bear the thought of trying to manhandle her into the shower in her current state. I carefully pull the piece of glass out of her arm. The blood oozes for a moment and then settles; no need for a plaster, thank goodness. She murmurs as I pick her up and lower her onto the bed, but within seconds of hitting the mattress, she’s fast asleep. I roll her into the recovery position.
I fight the urge to leave the mess until morning. However exhausted I am, that smell is revolting. Instead, I work my way back to the kitchen in search of a dustpan and brush, plus some old newspaper for the glass. Miraculously, I find both. The bristles on the brush are black with dirt and slightly stuck together, but it will do. And there’s a collection of Wandsworth Times in a box behind the back door.
