Escape and Evasion

by Christopher Wakling

  Joseph pushes his plate away. Surreptitiously, he takes his notebook from his bag. Tears out a sheet of paper and starts to jot down a list. Of what? Items necessary, of course. He can’t very well order them himself, can he? He has no way of getting online safely, no means of paying electronically, and nowhere to take delivery. Plus he can’t just go marching into the sort of shop that sells all this and buy it himself because, well, Lancaster. He’ll have those sorts of shops watched for big orders, or at least he could have, which amounts to the same thing: namely, not a risk Joseph can take. Charlie, though. With all his Outward Bound expertise, Duke of Edinburgh and so forth, yes he’s the man for this. After all, the same blood flows in their veins, doesn’t it?

  Well, sort of. Meaning: hopefully.

  18

  Huntington’s disease is hereditary. If one of your parents has it, you get to roll the dice, too. Actually, it’s more of a coin flip. Fifty per cent chance. Heads you win, tails you lose.

  Joseph worked that out in the school library, the big book spread between his elbows, the smell of polish gentle and smooth as the wood of that long oak table with its reading lamps and their orange glow. Beside him, a black window. He was fifteen. Apart from the creaking of the heating pipes the room was quiet. He ran his fingers over the spread page and sat very still indeed, utterly certain: those words were not about him. They just weren’t. He felt it with his whole body, emphatically, as if he’d just lowered himself into a hot bath. Lucky escape. He snapped the book shut.

  In fact, to begin with, the disease didn’t seem to apply to Dad either. They just carried on as normal. Joseph was away at school. He wasn’t very good at Spanish, and he didn’t make the under-sixteen football second eleven, which was disappointing. He thought about that, and he thought about Dad for a bit, and then he thought for longer about Peter Osborne, who was in the year above him, and who had an unfortunate high-pitched laugh, and heard Joseph mocking him for it as they stood in line for lunch, so decided to prove himself by punching him in the back of the head. Boom. Joseph saw actual stars. And Dad was ill, and yet wasn’t; he seemed fine at half-term. Whatever this thing he had was didn’t make much difference, and it’s tough for a teenage boy to think of other people even when they’re in the same room, much less five weeks and a hundred and twenty miles away. They’d find a cure. Dad said so. And, don’t admit this thought, but there it is anyway: Dad was Dad, not him.

  They didn’t bring it up until after Christmas, which until then went just fine. Dad carved the turkey with the electric knife, and Joseph didn’t bury anything stolen under the conifer hedge, and they all watched the Only Fools and Horses Christmas special together, and that made Mum laugh so much she had to wipe her eyes. Charlie got a petrol-driven remote-controlled car from Santa. Joseph showed him how to drive it round the car park, great figures of eight, timed with the digital half of his watch.

  Then one evening, after they’d put Charlie to bed, Mum asked Joseph to come through to the front room. Dad was already there, in his chair, legs crossed.

  ‘Sit down, son,’ he said.

  He did, next to a bowl of olives Mum had placed on a little table. As if he was a guest.

  ‘So. Enjoyable Christmas? Good one, yes? Charlie certainly likes that car.’

  Joseph nodded.

  ‘Which is good, isn’t it. And you’re having fun too. Which is important.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Eh? Ah. Well.’

  Dad looked round the room for the words.

  ‘This wretched Huntington’s. It’s …’

  He took a sip of wine and put the glass down carefully, then knotted his fingers together over his tummy. He was wearing a Christmas sweater. Not him at all.

  ‘… It’s, well, we’re obviously concerned about you and Charlie.’

  Joseph picked up an olive.

  ‘There’s this test,’ Dad went on, quietly. ‘A simple thing they can do, which shows up the problem gene, as in whether you’ve got it, or not. It’s one hundred per cent accurate, this test. They take some blood. And I, we, well, we’re obviously concerned, so we took Charlie to the hospital and …’

  Joseph shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He couldn’t believe it, that he hadn’t thought of Charlie before. This was about 50 per cent chances, and since Joseph knew, for certain, that it wasn’t him … The smell of the petrol, the buzz-roar of that excellent and therefore expensive radio-controlled car. They’d had him tested. The salty olive taste was thick in his throat. Poor Charlie. He was just eight.

  ‘And the great thing,’ Mum said, her voice high and bright, ‘is that he got the all-clear. Which is, well, obviously wonderful! A huge relief.’

  ‘Of course. That’s brilliant.’ Joseph fought to control his face. It wanted to give up tears, crumple, laugh, for Charlie, who he, Joseph, loved, loved, loved. He’d never felt it before this moment, not really, the deep hard ache of actual … Charlie! Doomed for a moment, then not. Just Charlie again!

  ‘Which leaves us with you,’ said Dad, his fingers still in a knot.

  Wow, the way he phrased that, or said it, or something, well, it blanked out the warm love feeling with instant resentment. Not for Charlie, no. For stupid Dad with his bastard genes. No, no, no: poor Dad! But they’d done this test thing without letting him, Joseph, know. While he was away at school getting punched in the back of the head. Meaning he was now playing catch-up. Meaning everything he was feeling was somehow out of date, thin, phoney.

  ‘That’s such good news about Charlie,’ Joseph said. It even sounded hollow. And it was all their fault.

  Dad leaned back in his chair to tell the ceiling. ‘Yes, and we’ve booked you in for the test, too.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Mum. ‘First thing. That way we’ll get the results before next Wednesday, before you’re back off to school.’ She paused. ‘There was good news with Charlie.’ She took a breath. ‘I just know it will also be good news for you.’

  Joseph was still looking at his father. Now he followed his gaze, took in the ceiling, white, lined with a crack-covering patterned wallpaper. The repeated crenulations were a maze. If Charlie was safe, did that make it more or less likely that he would be okay, too? No. Separate coin tosses. Mum knew that, surely. He did anyway. Charlie’s result changed nothing.

  ‘Joe?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. There was no way out up above, but when he looked back at his parents’ hopeful worried faces, it seemed he did have a choice of sorts. He felt himself deciding. ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ he told them. ‘There’s nothing to worry about with me, either. That’s what I felt when I read up on the disease. That’s what I feel now.’

  ‘I feel it, too,’ said Dad. ‘And by next Wednesday we’ll know for sure.’

  ‘Which will be a real relief!’ said Mum.

  ‘No.’

  Cue: long pause.

  ‘Joe?’

  ‘I don’t need to take a test.’

  Dad’s fingers squirmed over each other. ‘For us to be sure, you do.’

  ‘It’s my decision, though, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well. I suppose … we thought it best for Charlie, though. So we also, naturally, think—’

  ‘But I’m not Charlie,’ he said.

  ‘Joseph?’

  ‘No.’

  19

  Joseph heads for his brother’s school slash academy, mindful that he mustn’t be seen. The first children are trickling from the gates. He carries on past them in search of the staff car park, trying to look as if he’s on official luminous business, checking the signage, drainage, parking bays. There, behind the barrier, over by the low breeze block wall. Charlie’s Vauxhall people carrier. Definitely his: look at that bumper sticker. It’s a Christian fish, only this one has sprouted feet and the word ‘Darwin’ across its middle. Ah, Charlie. Where are you?

  Annoyingly, late.

  Fifty minutes!

  During which time Joseph has to make himself scarce but near, one
eye on the car, one on everybody else, meaning the staff and parents and children who drift about on their academy business. Thankfully nobody seems to pay him any attention at all. Still, it’s stressful. By the time Charlie appears, freighted with books but bouncily striding across the car park all the same – triathlons! – Joseph’s first urge is to ask him where the hell he’s been.

  But he doesn’t. He sort of skulks into view instead. Charlie blips the central locking, opens a rear door and slings his bag onto the back seat. Then he jumps in and drags the car through a three-point turn, heading for the barrier gate. As the swing arm lifts, Joseph realises that his brother hasn’t noticed him standing there. He’s just, going. No, no, no. Before the car pulls forward again Joseph steps to its side and raps on the passenger window. Charlie does a confused double take. What? Who? No time to explain. Joseph hooks open a back door and jumps in among the child seats.

  ‘It’s me,’ he says.

  Charlie cranes his head round and there is actual fear in his eyes.

  ‘Me, Joe!’

  Charlie’s head bobs back on his neck. ‘It’s a Friday afternoon,’ he says.

  ‘So what? Let’s go!’

  ‘I have to pick the girls up from nursery.’

  ‘Please, just get us moving.’

  The car doesn’t move. Something in the set line of Charlie’s mouth makes him the exact person he was aged fourteen, ten, four. He’s fighting to keep himself from smiling, pleased to have the upper hand in a situation he doesn’t understand. Christ, how infuriating!

  ‘Towards the nursery, then. I’ll explain on the way.’

  20

  Charlie puts the car into gear and eases into the afternoon traffic. His forehead, in the rear-view mirror, stays creased. What have we here, then? it says. Best go super carefully. Joseph has seen that expression before, too. Many times. For instance: here’s Charlie at primary school, way out ahead in the egg and spoon race. Slow and steady, with a safe pair of hands, equals: win.

  The longer Joseph waits to talk the harder it is to start. He owes it to Charlie to be honest, but what he, Charlie, doesn’t hear, can’t be got out of him, can it? Can’t hurt him, either. Him and Libby, plus the girls. Joseph has a certain responsibility to them. Meaning he must keep them out of it as far as possible. Why, then, is he in the back of his brother’s car at all? Hear that crunching? It’s the sound of Joseph’s own logic cracking its knuckles.

  The hot-air blower is on, and this high-vis coat is heavy. Joseph struggles out of it. Every now and then Charlie glances at him in the mirror. Waiting patiently. They drive in thickening silence. There’s a carabiner attached to a length of nylon rope amongst the kiddie detritus in the footwell. Joseph picks it up and turns it over and over, opening and shutting its sprung jaw. Charlie leads Outward Bound courses at school, climbs in his spare time, owns three different kinds of bicycle, and wedges a ton of kit into his roof box for the family camping trip each summer. Outdoorsy! But not military, no. Hated the whole army thing when Joseph was in it, ditto the City when he started with that. Anything Joseph, in fact, was not Charlie. But still, still, the thick stuff. Blood!

  ‘I could use some help,’ says Joseph.

  ‘What happened to your hair?’

  Joseph runs a hand over the stubble-sharpness.

  ‘And the beard?’

  He shrugs.

  A pause, then: ‘Why aren’t you at work?’

  ‘Well, circumstances have …’

  Another pause. ‘Have they given you the—’

  ‘What? No!’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Things are going well. It’s just … I need your help to pull something off.’

  ‘My help?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Joseph pauses again as Charlie negotiates a mini roundabout. Nice and gently. It’s mesmerising, his driving style. Joseph sits back and looks at London’s suburbs scrolling past. Here we are at Richmond Park already. How did that happen?

  That means they’re not far from Norbiton, where Charlie and Libby live, with the girls of course: happy family. And presumably the nursery is near there, too. Making it important that he, Joseph, gets on with it. Before they arrive. It’s just hard to begin.

  ‘Do you mind pulling over,’ Joseph says.

  Charlie checks the mirror. ‘Why?’

  ‘So we can talk.’

  ‘I’m kind of late.’

  ‘Can’t Libby step in?’

  ‘No! If you’d rung …’

  Nevertheless, he brings the Vauxhall to a halt at the side of the road. Good old Charlie. It really is a grey day. Those deer in the distance look like they’re made of concrete.

  ‘Well?’ says Charlie.

  ‘Yes, of course. I should have rung. Life’s been a bit hectic.’

  ‘Is this to do with Naomi?’

  ‘No, no change there.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He’s still looking at Joseph in the rear-view mirror. See those new crows’ feet round his eyes, plus grey in his hair. Irrelevant. He’s the kid brother. Always will be. Born wise, anyway, Charlie. A man with a plan. Whereas Joseph always seemed to be reacting to things. Not now, though. Now he’s taken control.

  Hold on, what about the unopened St Thomas’ letter?

  Stop it.

  But that’s the point: ‘it’ won’t be stopped. He’ll have to confront the news one day.

  Not now, though.

  ‘She called Libby, actually,’ Charlie goes on. ‘Said she hadn’t heard from you for a while, wondered if—’

  ‘You mustn’t tell her you’ve seen me.’

  Charlie swivels in his seat. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Just don’t.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  That’s a teacher’s stare all right. Deputy heads are the hard men in the school hierarchy, aren’t they? Enforcers. Tuck that shirt in, young man. Or possibly, these days, something more to do with sexting, or a knife. Little Charlie. Eyeballing him, Joseph Ashcroft, Big Square Mile Beast. As was. Think! People like being asked for advice, rather than a favour. Can’t remember who taught him that but it’s stood him well before, so why not here?

  ‘I’ve got this project,’ Joseph begins. ‘It’s, like, a … team building thing. And I was wondering whether you’d give me some help choosing kit.’

  ‘A project?’

  ‘You know, camping gear, a sleeping bag, cooking stuff.’

  ‘You jumped me in the car park for this?’

  ‘It’s important.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Joe?’

  ‘I will be if you help.’

  ‘Back up a bit. What are you on about?’

  What Joseph really wants to do is explain the whole thing, because Charlie will listen, Charlie will understand, Charlie will even approve. You’ve gone and done what, Joe? Jesus. Wow. You’re an actual hero.

  But he can’t tell him.

  So instead he says: ‘It’s sort of an away day, but longer. Like an away week. We have to fend for ourselves, camp out, live off the land. There’ll be tasks, feats of endurance and so forth. Generally I’ll have to make do.’

  The crows’ feet deepen when Charlie smiles. ‘They really are a bunch of wankers, aren’t they.’

  ‘Here.’ Joseph fishes out the list he made in the cafe and offers it to his brother. ‘I’ve jotted down some thoughts. It’s just a start. You organise these sorts of things. Check if there’s anything I’ve forgotten.’

  It’s more a squint of incomprehension than a smile now. Very slowly Charlie says, ‘Look, you should come round to the house. We’d like to see you. All of you. From what Libby said I’m sure Naomi would agree to that. Come for dinner, bring the family, and we can discuss this … camping trip.’

  Joseph shakes his head.

  ‘Right now, Joe, I’d say you could do with getting some rest.’

  The hum of traffic through the park underscores the quiet. Something ancient is working itself out. He’s Charlie,
they’re in his car, he’s calling the shots. And yet he’s not. Because Joseph is Joe, and you can’t reverse birth order. One of those deer has moved closer. It’s gouging listlessly at the grey earth beneath those trees. More big bushes really. Silence can be an effective tool. Whose silence is this, though? It’s his, Joseph’s, and it’s growing. The deer lifts its head. They’re all neck, deer. Joseph can look at it for as long as this takes.

  ‘Anyway,’ Charlie says eventually, ‘you were in the army. Surely you’d know better than me what you’d need for wild camping, or whatever.’

  A concession! He’s thinking about it. Joseph waves the objection away. ‘That was ages ago. You know what’s what now. I’ll come to dinner soon. I’d love to. But this is important. I need this stuff. I wouldn’t be asking you to get it for me if I didn’t have to.’

  ‘Get it for you?’

  ‘Yeah, look.’ Joseph places some banknotes on the passenger seat, more than enough to buy all that he could possibly need. ‘Use this. And treat the girls with the change.’

  Charlie tries to hand the money back. ‘What’s wrong with you buying it yourself?’

  ‘I … can’t. Please, just order everything on that list and anything else you can think of and pay for whichever delivery option is fastest and leave it in the back of the car for me to collect at school,’ says Joseph in a rush.

  ‘You want me to leave my car unlocked, full of shopping bags, in central London? Come to the house!’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Joe.’

  ‘You’re late, and I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.’ Joseph reaches forward to run his hand over the back of his brother’s head. The warmth of it. Charlie rolls his shoulders and dips away. Joseph opens the door.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says, climbing out.

  ‘Wait,’ says Charlie.

  Joseph pauses.