by Louise Beech
Halfway through, Andrew took a break. He read his blood, surprised that he was low despite the Coke and cereal bars. He ate another one, his last. He would have to buy more. Back at the table he felt dizzy again and wondered if he’d have to stop.
When he looked up he saw Ben.
No. Something not quite right. Ben, but shorter.
Ben, but with darker hair.
Not him.
The non-Ben held the book to his chest with crossed arms, like his heart was reading the blurb on the back. He came to the table. A child somewhere began to cry.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
Andrew felt queasy. ‘What did you say?’ he stammered.
‘Look at the ink.’ The man pointed to the pen.
It had leaked all over the felt.
‘Damn,’ said Andrew.
Stella brought another pen and dabbed at the stain.
‘It’s the best book I’ve ever read to my son,’ the non-Ben said. ‘You got him into books. He was never bothered before.’
‘Thank you.’ Andrew opened it at the title page. ‘What’s your son’s name?’
‘Elliott. He makes me read every night. It’s truly beautiful. You have a real way with words.’
Andrew was touched. ‘Thank you.’ He wrote a dedication to Elliott.
‘Who’s the real-life Ben then?’ asked the man.
‘Sorry?’ Andrew blinked.
All the edges were blurred. He could see two of everything. The bookstore swam.
‘You dedicated the book to Ben.’
Of course. He had. No one else had asked who he was.
‘He inspired some of the story,’ said Andrew. ‘He’s my…’
Andrew looked at the page. The words misted. He remembered again that day at Will’s home. His father’s home. Collapsing in the kitchen. Andrew had feared that if he closed his eyes Ben would disappear forever. He had struggled hard to keep his heavy lids open. This isn’t nothing, he’d thought. He felt dizzy, now as then. He could hardly keep his eyes open, now as then.
‘Are you okay?’ The voice came from far away.
There was no real Ben now to catch him if he collapsed.
Andrew wished he could see him again. Tell him that he might have cruelly turned him away, but every time he passed the hospital and every time he ate peas and every time the spellchecker underlined one of his misspelt words, he thought of him. Every time he saw posters for the circus and every time he felt low and every time he saw the number nine, he thought of him.
A crash. What was it? The table. It had fallen. Books scattered.
How?
‘Get help,’ cried someone.
Who for?
Then Andrew realised he had turned the table over. He was on the floor, next to his chair. Feet surrounded him; children’s colourful plimsolls, lace-up boots, high heels. Where were Ben’s trainers? Gone. They walked elsewhere now. Zimbabwe. With the lions.
The last thing Andrew saw before passing out cold was the first page of his book.
For Ben.
PART SEVEN
WILL
42
The Woman Who Cried
Nancy gave Ben a colour-by-numbers picture for his birthday, already complete. She said it wasn’t very good. Ben shook his head and insisted it was proper art because she’d gone over the edges and painted green where there should be red.
Andrew Fitzgerald, The Lion Tamer Who Lost
The living room needs cleaning.
Johnny Cash and John Denver records obscure the cigarette-burned floor near the old stereo with a turntable that rotates one second too slowly. The cover to Cash’s Best Of album is torn in half, splitting titles ‘I’ll Still Be There’ and ‘What Do I Care?’ Will tried fixing it once with masking tape but gave up.
He can’t remember listening to the old collection last night, but the evidence is there. Now he returns the LPs to the shelf and wonders why bad memories never fade. The record covers are washed out now, yet regrets tumble into Will’s head so clearly each morning. Does the drink wash away only the good? How he would enjoy vivid memories of swearing at Cartwright or of Heidi in her healthy days. Instead, every morning he sees Mike’s face at the wedding, and Ben’s as he left for Zimbabwe.
In the kitchen, Will lights a cigarette at the gas hob and stands at the sink. His hand is so unsteady that ash falls each time he inhales. On the table, folded, a newspaper sudoku’s few blank squares beg for answer. They have been waiting since Ben left. That’s six months ago now. Will inhales hard and the cigarette’s tip crackles like a dying bonfire. He won’t finish the puzzle. He probably knows the answers, but Ben always helps him put the numbers where they belong.
He sent a letter to Ben but can hardly remember now what he wrote. Though he was sober at the time, he has been drinking too heavily since. There’s been no response. Will checks the post every day. He has no clue when Ben will be home – if he’ll even come home. He is sure Mike has leave in a few weeks, but doubts he’ll come here.
He longs for a drink.
It’s a thirst he has little strength to resist.
Did he finish the bottle last night? He rummages in the kitchen cupboard, then returns to the living room where he feels down the sides of the now-stained sofa. An indistinct tapping disturbs the search. Will frowns. Where’s it coming from? He parts the dirty nets, looks out front. No one. The tap, tap, tap continues so he goes to the back door.
Outside the light is blinding, the glory of late June.
No one there either.
Then a voice comes from the side of the house. Hesitant footsteps. A man appears. Will is momentarily confused. He knows him but can’t place him. Realises then that it is Andrew, Ben’s friend.
‘You said to come around the back,’ he says.
‘What? I didn’t say nowt.’
‘No, last time.’
‘It’s a bit bloody early, lad,’ says Will.
Andrew looks up the garden as though surprised to be here. ‘It’s eleven o’clock,’ he says. ‘I’m…’ He pauses as though trying to recall what he is. ‘Walking. I was just walking by here and I had to knock.’
‘Walking? Here? It doesn’t go anywhere.’
Will realises why he couldn’t immediately place Andrew. He doesn’t look well. He must have lost weight since that Sunday lunch, and his cheeks are hollow. His face is scrunched up like an old newspaper.
‘Ben’s not here,’ says Will. ‘Thought you knew? He’s away.’
‘I know.’ Andrew’s face softens. ‘I came to see you.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. Can I come in?’
‘Not sure about that,’ says Will.
‘Why?’
‘You might be, you know, after me.’
Andrew shakes his head. ‘No.’
Will doesn’t step aside or open the door any wider. ‘Do you have news about Ben? He’s okay, isn’t he?’
‘I haven’t spoken to him. Please, I just have to talk to you and we can’t out here.’
Will stares at this man, wondering what to do. Finally he moves aside. Andrew steps over the threshold, clumsy and awkward. He surveys the room. Will wonders if he’s looking for Ben; Will does every morning and last thing at night. He slept in Ben’s narrow bed the first three nights he was gone, thinking how the childhood die-cast replica cars were now so caked in dust it might never wash off. Andrew studies the sink, the cupboards, the sudoku puzzle on the table, and then looks at Will with eyes full of knowing.
What is it he knows?
Suddenly Will sees clearly the moment he undressed Kimberley – exactly where Andrew now stands. Why does it come to him now? He isn’t sure. This is not a bad memory. It should be; its effects have been bad. It comes to him in a photographic flash: untied straps and undone hooks that won’t easily free, giving time to go back, to not, to go, to not; his mouth on her neck, tasting youth and bitter perfume while she moves a hand shyly over his zip as though assessing how much
he’ll hurt her; shortbread – a gift from her grandma – sitting on the counter where Will lifts her by the waist so he can bury himself between her thighs; the happy family on the shortbread box not covering their eyes when Will thrusts into her; her crying out as he moves, clearly not knowing what this does to him.
‘Are you okay?’ It’s Andrew.
He’s still here.
But why?
‘Yes,’ says Will. ‘Just … nothing. So, what do you want, lad?’
‘I…’ He looks like he might faint. ‘I don’t know where to start.’
‘Just say it.’
Will wonders if Andrew has a secret crush on Ben, and wants to unburden himself. But why would he come to him? Will knows he was rude at that Sunday lunch. Isn’t he the last person Andrew is likely to want to talk to?
‘I need to sit down.’ Andrew holds the sink.
‘Okay, okay, come through.’
Andrew follows Will into the living room. He sits in the single armchair and Will moves a pile of newspapers from the sofa and sits there. The ashtray on the coffee table is full. The packet next to it is empty. He needs a drink. He remembers now where a bottle might be.
‘Do you want a drink?’
Will opens the cabinet, gets a half-empty vodka bottle from behind the photo of Heidi and pours some into a tumbler. Who is he even hiding it from now?
Andrew shakes his head. ‘It should be a nine,’ he says.
‘What should?’ asks Will.
‘Top left. The sudoku puzzle, in there.’
Will gulps vodka. ‘This is just weird, lad. I hardly know you. Why d’you want to talk to me? You didn’t come to talk about fucking puzzles.’
‘Did you know I had cancer?’
Will shakes his head, even more confused. ‘Why would I know?’ He drinks more. ‘And why do I need to?’
‘I collapsed again, last week.’
Will doesn’t speak. What can he say?
‘I got better though, thanks to Ben.’
‘Thanks to Ben?’
Andrew nods. His eyes say there’s more, but his mouth takes its time. Eventually he says, ‘Ben had this blood test to see if we were a match and gave me his stem cells. He’s probably why I’m alive.’
‘Ben did? Why him?’
‘Because … we’re good friends.’
‘Didn’t you have any family who could do it, lad?’
Now Andrew looks distraught, and Will regrets being so blunt.
‘I shouldn’t have let him do the test,’ he says.
‘Why?’ asks Will.
‘Because it changed everything.’
‘I’m lost.’
Andrew takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. ‘Do you remember a woman called Anne?’ he asks.
Will wonders for a moment if this is something to do with the sudoku puzzle again. Did Anne Someone invent them? The vodka relaxes him, as the first glass or two always does, and takes the edge off any irritation.
‘Anne who?’ he asks.
He realises a surname will not help. He only knew one Anne, long ago, but Andrew can’t possibly know her or know that. Anne was his first lover. She was probably forty years old to his twenty-three. Anne was the woman whose tears began a lifelong need to comfort women who wept.
But he never knew her surname.
‘Anne Fitzgerald,’ says Andrew.
‘I remember a woman called Anne, but I can’t know if she’s the one you mean. Hell, there are a lot of Annes around. I’ve known a few bloody women.’
Andrew reaches into his pocket and takes out a photo. He hands it over. Will looks at it. At Anne, in black and white. Soft curls fall onto shoulders, ringlets that once reminded him of the Greek goddesses in his mother’s hallway pictures. Her mouth is an upside-down curl too, as though when she laughs she wishes to be sad and when she frowns she wishes to be happy. He gasps at the memory. He has not seen her in so many years.
‘It’s my Anne,’ is all he can say. ‘But how? Why do you have this?’
‘I’ll tell you. But tell me first … did you care about her?’
Will drinks. He sits back in the chair, closes his eyes.
‘I promised I’d never forget her and I never have,’ he says, happy to talk about her. ‘You never forget your first, do you? And she was my first, in all ways. In love, in sex. I was a late starter at twenty-three, would you believe? Made up for that, I bloody know.’
Andrew moves to the edge of his seat. ‘Your first – so she wasn’t nothing?’
‘God no, she was anything but nothing.’
Will enjoys remembering. He almost forgets Andrew is there, that he is talking aloud. The vodka warms and lulls and encourages.
‘I’d never seen a woman cry until her,’ he says. ‘In our house, when I was a lad, fuck, you didn’t cry. Crying was for wusses, for the weak. Stiff upper lip and all that. So, when I saw Anne on that bench alone, her breath in the cold air, I’d never seen anyone so vulnerable, anything so erotic.’ He exhales slowly. ‘I grew up in about two hours. She was out the back of the care home. My grandfather was in there, getting closer to death by the hour. She was crying and smoking. I asked if she had a spare ciggie and she let me share hers. The last in the pack. Her hair had fallen from its bun, I remember. I never did ask why she was crying. We went back to hers. It was only one afternoon, but…’ Will looks at Andrew, realising these are intimate moments he’s sharing. ‘Look, she was special. But why do you want to know? How do you know her?’
‘She was my mother,’ says Andrew.
‘Your…?’ Will drops his glass, curses as the liquid wets his lap.
Andrew nods, his eyes sad.
‘I felt like I maybe knew you,’ says Will, studying him. ‘That Sunday. You look like her. You do. But I don’t … How? And how did you know I’d known her? She only knew my first name, never had my picture…’
‘I know because of Ben.’
‘You’re really losing me, lad. I’ve never talked to him about her!’ Will pauses. ‘Wait, you said was my mother…’
‘Yes. She died a few years ago,’ says Andrew. ‘It was peaceful.’
Will nods. Doesn’t know what to say.
Taking another swig, he eventually says, ‘I think you’d better tell me about Ben. How is he any part of this?’
He suddenly remembers finding a single-paged confession by Heidi once, hidden in a bottom drawer after she died. A page of mis-words and regret: At Mona’s Christmas party I kissed Gary under the misseltoe. He’s only nineteen. A proper kiss. That means I’m a terrible terrible wife. Will had merely smiled and whispered to himself that they were all terrible, terrible people, they all did terrible, terrible things, and he loved her even more with the confession.
‘It’s going to come as a shock,’ says Andrew.
‘For fuck’s sake, lad, just tell me.’
‘When Ben did the blood test, we found out that we were probably brothers.’
‘Huh?’
Will can’t put the words together in his head. They are so alien. Make no sense. Is it the vodka?
‘We had all these markers in our DNA. It is very probable we are brothers, maybe cousins. But I knew brothers. I just knew, because I…’ Andrew shakes his head. ‘That doesn’t matter. You’ve confirmed it. You were with my mother when she got pregnant.’
‘Brothers.’ Will whispers the word. ‘When did you…?’
‘End of September.’
Then Will realises. Looks at Andrew, slack-mouthed. ‘So you’re my…’
‘Yes,’ says Andrew. ‘I am.’
Will stands. He feels his knees giving a little. As he staggers, Andrew comes forwards to rescue him, but Will waves his arm, says, ‘No, I’m okay. Just need a ciggie.’
He goes into the kitchen, Andrew following behind. He lights the cigarette at the gas flame, then opens the door, letting in the light. Somewhere faraway a lawnmower buzzes.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ admits Will.
‘I
understand. It’s a hell of a lot to take in.’
Will then realises and says, ‘Ben. Ben knows. Of course. Is that why he went away? But why would he go? Why wouldn’t he come and tell me? This isn’t so bad, is it, lad?’ He looks at Andrew. ‘A shock. And a hell of a strange coincidence. But not bad news.’
Andrew turns away from him as though he might leave but then he seems to think again. He is so pale now he looks close to collapse. Will remembers the diabetes.
‘You okay, lad? You need some … sugar or something sweet?’
Andrew shakes his head. ‘It’s not that,’ he says.
‘Is this why Ben hasn’t written to me?’ asks Will, frowning.
‘He was angry about … you and Kimberley. Yes, he told me once we knew … our link. He was angry that the … you know, moment with Kimberley and the moment you had with my mum has affected others. Him. Us.’
Will nods. ‘I’ve been an idiot.’
‘You miss Ben?’
‘Yes. I do.’
Will studies Andrew. Sees him anew. The eyes, the mouth. Familiar. Like Ben. Like Mike. Like himself. Another son, after all this time. Affection floods his alcohol-stifled mind. This is his son. How on earth did life happen this way? Is this some vodka-fuelled dream and he’ll wake on the sofa? No. Andrew, Ben’s friend, a man he met once and made quite unwelcome in his home, is his son. He wants to make some gesture to show acceptance but doesn’t know how.
Instead he says, ‘I still don’t get why Ben volunteered his blood or whatever to a mate?’
‘Maybe we somehow knew we were more,’ says Andrew softly. ‘You admitted earlier that you felt you knew me that Sunday. Maybe we always know.’
‘Maybe.’ Will pauses. ‘What should we do?’
‘I don’t expect anything,’ says Andrew. ‘This is new to you, whereas I’ve had months to come to terms with it. But I had to come and tell you.’
‘Why now?’ asks Will.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why not last month or the one before?’
Andrew shrugs but there is clearly something more to it. ‘I’m really exhausted now. I should go.’
