Unforgotten

by Clare Francis

  ‘Not sure there’s much to tell,’ Hugh said. But there was plenty to tell, and they had made serious inroads into the Bordeaux by the time Hugh had covered Lou’s gap year and her place at Edinburgh to read medicine, and Lizzie’s work for her lost and not-so-lost causes, and lastly, because Hugh couldn’t bear to let it dominate the family history, the roller-coaster of Charlie’s relationship with illegal substances.

  ‘God-awful things, drugs,’ said Mike. ‘The curse of our age. We’ve known a few kids who’ve gone that way, haven’t we, Rachel? Such a bloody waste. But Charlie’s all right now, is he?’

  ‘So far as I know. As of yesterday. That’s all you can ever say.’

  ‘You talk to him regularly?’

  ‘Oh, three times a week.’ In fact it was Lizzie who called three times a week, Hugh more like once a week because he worried about having enough to say. He added, ‘And we text in between.’

  ‘But it must be tough on you and Lizzie. The worry, I mean.’

  ‘Yes, but we’ve learnt to get on with our lives. It’s a hard lesson, but it’s the only way.’

  Mike said, ‘We worry about Abbie, don’t we, Rachel? She doesn’t do drugs – at least we don’t think she does – but she’s been into almost everything else. Body piercing. Purple hair. Raves. Not eating properly. Spectral boyfriends with no visible means of support. Even now we’re not sure we’re out of the woods – are we, love? All you can do is keep your mouth shut and keep telling them you love them.’

  Even as Hugh agreed with this, he wondered if he hadn’t failed Charlie on both counts. There had been times when, bewildered by Charlie’s capacity for self-sabotage, unable to find anything useful to say, he’d stayed silent, but there had been just as many occasions when he’d said too much, and badly. As for telling Charlie he loved him, he’d tried to say it regularly, but now it struck him with a pang of regret that he hadn’t said it nearly often enough.

  ‘We always tell ourselves there’s no need to worry while they keep coming home,’ Mike said. ‘And, thank God, Abbie still turns up every second weekend. Brings her laundry, sleeps all day, raids the fridge, heaves long-suffering sighs if we dare to ask about college.’ He raised an open palm. ‘Can’t ask for more.’

  ‘Charlie can’t get home very often.’

  ‘But he comes home – that’s the point.’

  ‘And with his laundry,’ Hugh smiled, wishing he could take more comfort from this. ‘And your boys?’

  Both were scholars, one starting his first year at Cambridge, the other a postgraduate at Oxford with all the makings of a history don. Mike spoke of them with a mixture of modesty and awe. ‘Don’t know where they get the academic bent from. The genes must have skipped a generation somewhere along the line.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ Rachel murmured in what was clearly an old refrain.

  ‘They’re lent to you, these kids,’ Mike said reflectively. ‘And there’s no accounting for how they turn out.’ He had been popping cashew nuts into his mouth, but now he pushed the bowl firmly in Hugh’s direction as if to distance himself from temptation. ‘And what about the big case, Hugh? How’s it going?’

  At this, several conflicting thoughts went through Hugh’s mind. That the rules of confidentiality demanded his silence on the subject of Tom’s double game. That he hadn’t realised quite how badly he needed to talk to someone. That Mike was the perfect person to confide in, an old friend far removed from the case whose discretion, absolute as it was, would never be put to the test. That secrets, once out, had a habit of spreading.

  ‘It’s going okay,’ he said.

  ‘Your psychiatrists all singing from the same song sheet?’

  For a wild moment Hugh imagined Mike knew all about the two sets of opinions, that in some strange parallel universe he too was acting for Tom. ‘Well . . . yeah . . .’

  ‘With our torture clients we find it always comes down to the expert evidence,’ Mike said. ‘How convincing it is. Because like your Mr Deacon our people don’t have much to show for what they’ve been through, the damage is all up here.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘Without the shrinks’ evidence they just get categorised as asylum seekers going for the oldest trick in the book. The attitude’s, well, they would say that, wouldn’t they? Unless they have the scars to prove it, of course. But clever torturers don’t leave scars.’ Mike added, ‘Nothing like an avalanche of pseudo science for bluffing your way through.’

  ‘Pseudo science?’

  ‘Psychiatry. It’s all observation, isn’t it, not hard science. It’s all opinion and fashion. And’ – he raised his glass – ‘thank God for that. Otherwise half my asylum seekers would get thrown out of the country.’

  Hugh said, ‘With Tom the issue’s not whether he’s got PTSD – no one’s questioning that – it’s whether he’s likely to recover, and if so, by how much.’

  ‘And will he?’

  ‘No one thinks so, no.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘Me?’ Hugh echoed, not used to offering a personal opinion. ‘No,’ he said after a moment, ‘I can’t see him recovering.’

  Rachel said, ‘Perhaps Hugh would like a wash and change, Mike.’

  Mike’s eyebrows shot up, he lumbered to his feet with a scrape of his chair. ‘Of course you would!’

  ‘Explain about the water,’ Rachel said.

  ‘Yes – hot but deathly slow.’

  The room belonged to one of the sons, the walls decorated with scuffed photographs and old Sellotape marks, the available surfaces buried under papers and music systems. The bathroom was cluttered with toiletries, many without their caps, and Hugh was reminded of the kids’ bathroom at home. While the bath filled he went back to the bedroom and phoned Lizzie’s mobile. She answered at the third ring. Her voice, always a mirror to her mood, was affectionate but mildly preoccupied, as if she’d been in the middle of something.

  ‘Where are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Home.’

  ‘Not too long a day then?’

  ‘No. You sound awful, love, as if you’re getting a cold.’

  ‘Not getting, got,’ he said with a nudge of self-pity. ‘A real stinker. And I’ve had a God-awful day. Tom’s gone AWOL, the case looks as though it’s going to fall apart, I’ll probably have to resign, and it’ll be a miracle if anyone gets any money, myself included.’

  ‘Is it really that bad?’

  ‘Well, yes, it is,’ he said, wanting sympathy just then, not scepticism.

  Her small ‘I see’ drove him to elaborate. He told the story at speed and without pause, skipping from point to point without logic or structure, the frustrations of the day pouring out in a fierce, unrelenting fume of woe and self-reproach. When he wasn’t repeating himself he was beating himself up in some new way, finding fresh sources of gloom. He should have seen it coming, he should have liaised with the solicitor in Exeter, he should have warned Tom against having two different stories, he should have handled the news differently. Now it was too late, the case would probably implode, Tom would be left with next to nothing.

  When he finally came to a halt it was to be met by silence, as though Lizzie was waiting to be sure the onslaught was over.

  ‘Why don’t you talk to Mike about it?’ she said at last. ‘Ask his advice?’

  ‘I can’t. Ethically.’

  ‘What about hypothetically then?’

  ‘I can’t,’ he insisted. Then, hearing himself at his stubborn worst, he murmured, ‘Well, maybe . . .’ Then, aware that he had been talking at her non-stop for the last five minutes, he asked how her work had gone.

  ‘Oh, I had the most extraordinary day,’ she said. ‘Something of a breakthrough. Well, I think so anyway. But I’ll tell you about it another time.’

  ‘One of your cases?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said shortly, as if she really didn’t want to be drawn.

  But Hugh was determined to demonstrate his interest. ‘Which one?’

  ‘We
sley. You remember Wesley?’

  ‘Of course I remember Wesley,’ he said, amazed she should imagine he didn’t. ‘Have you managed to get them rehoused?’

  ‘No. It’s something else, something . . .’ A small rush of breath while she framed the words. ‘. . . something that completely changes their situation.’

  ‘Great. What—’

  But she cut across him to say, ‘Look, I spoke to Charlie. He’s very upset.’

  ‘Oh?’ Hugh said, not wanting the weight of Charlie’s problems just then. ‘What about?’

  ‘You not wanting him to go to Spain. He feels you don’t trust him. That you’ve got no faith in him.’

  ‘Well, I don’t,’ he said baldly.

  ‘He feels—’

  ‘Christ! Hang on!’ Hugh rushed into the bathroom. The water was an inch below the overflow, and he turned off the taps with a shudder of relief. ‘Okay,’ he admitted, returning to Lizzie, ‘perhaps I don’t trust him. No, I’ll rephrase that – it’s his addiction I don’t trust, the way it seems to pounce without warning. So what’s wrong with that? If he had more sense he wouldn’t trust his addiction either.’

  ‘But this is counterproductive, don’t you see?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but how exactly?’

  ‘He feels that his achievement over the last few months means nothing to you, that you don’t appreciate how well he’s done. And it’s hurt him. He’s really upset.’

  ‘But how did you put it to him? What did you say?’

  ‘I said you were worried about him going to Spain, that you didn’t think it was a good idea. That’s all.’

  ‘In that case, he’s overreacting.’

  ‘Maybe. But that’s the way he sees it.’

  Hugh felt a sudden weariness. ‘I’ll call him, okay? I’ll call him this evening.’

  ‘If you would, darling. And Hugh?’

  ‘Yes,’ he pre-empted her, ‘I promise not to get angry.’

  ‘And your cold. Do take an aspirin, won’t you? Or a Panadol. Ask Rachel – she’s bound to have something.’

  Hugh felt better after his bath. Before calling Charlie he sat on the bed, the phone ready in his hand, preparing an argument based on concern rather than distrust, rehearsing a warm loving tone. But when he finally dialled it was to be diverted to Charlie’s message service, and then he left a short message, asking Charlie to call. It was only after he’d rung off that he realised how impersonal the message had sounded, and how he’d forgotten to give Charlie his love.

  After dinner, Mike and Hugh took some wine to the living room and sat on either side of a flaming mock-coal fire. Over the mantelpiece hung a large abstract painting in wild splashes of scarlet, black and white. ‘One of Abbie’s,’ Mike remarked, following Hugh’s gaze. ‘We think it’s rather good.’

  ‘It’s amazing,’ Hugh murmured, not being a judge of these things.

  ‘You just have to accept that creative kids aren’t going to have easy lives,’ Mike said.

  And maybe not-so-creative ones too, thought Hugh. It might have been the virus settling low over his brain like a fog, it might have been the comfort of the battered armchair, it might simply have been the wine, but he found himself saying, ‘Could I put a hypothetical case to you, Mike?’

  ‘Of course,’ Mike said easily. ‘But don’t rely on me for a textbook answer, Hugh. I’m not exactly a textbook man.’

  Hugh went through it all: the personal injury claim of the hypothetical Mr D, the anonymous letter, the custody case two counties away, Mr D’s failure to grasp the consequences of his actions, and his temporary disappearance. ‘Mr D’s solicitor put a lot of pressure on him to come clean, and now he worries that he might have pushed Mr D over the edge.’

  Holding up a hand as if to take Hugh back a step or two, Mike said, ‘But nothing’s come out yet? Hypothetically speaking.’

  ‘Well, no . . . but it will.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the High Court case will get reported.’

  ‘Not in the law pages. It’s hardly ground-breaking stuff.’

  ‘But the popular press.’

  ‘Okay, but they’re not going to go into great detail, are they? Could be just a couple of lines.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’ Hugh asked nervously. ‘That the solicitor should pretend he doesn’t know about the other case and hope it all goes away?’

  Mike gave a light shrug. ‘You know what they always say – when in doubt do nothing.’

  ‘You know our man can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The rules of conduct – he’d be in breach. He’d be in danger of being struck off.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Hugh breathed.

  ‘Who knows about this anonymous letter? According to our scenario.’

  ‘Oh, several people.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, Mr D, obviously. Plus our man’s wife. Plus his trainee.’

  ‘No one who’s going to talk, then.’

  Taken aback by this, Hugh summoned Isabel’s argument. ‘But the letter writer’s bound to try again. People like that always do.’

  ‘So that’s a risk our man has to take.’

  ‘A bad risk,’ said Hugh, beginning to fight back. ‘He can hardly deny he got the letter.’

  ‘Okay, but perhaps the letter never mentioned any new medical evidence,’ Mike suggested ingenuously. ‘Perhaps our man wrote it off as a poison-pen letter, a fabrication, not to be taken seriously.’

  ‘Christ. You’re asking him to cross one massive great line.’

  ‘Am I? It seems to me that the codes of conduct don’t always cover every eventuality. That sometimes you have to make a decision that satisfies the needs of natural justice. It happens all the time in my line of work,’ he admitted airily. ‘And if that means bending the rules a little . . . well . . .’

  ‘A bit more than bending the rules!’

  ‘I deal in human desperation. I tend to avoid sharp distinctions.’

  Hugh shook his head, momentarily unable to counter this rush of argument.

  Mike swung his wine glass to one side. ‘Playing devil’s advocate, would it really be such a bad thing to do nothing? Mr D’s a genuinely sick man whose condition isn’t going to improve. So he’s not telling the High Court any lies. He’s not trying to obtain money dishonestly. He’s just trying to save his kids from going into care, and who can blame him for that? Christ, if it was me, I’d kill rather than let my kids be taken away by social services. Okay, so Mr D’s been a bit economical with the truth in his dealings with the family court, but that’s not going to result in a bad outcome, is it? It’s not going to harm any of the people who matter. The ex-wife can’t cope and you say Mr D’s mad keen to look after the kids. Well, that has to be the best outcome, doesn’t it? For the kids. And for Mr D. And for the ex-wife. Certainly a whole lot better than having the kids shunted round the care system.’

  Hugh felt a certain awe at Mike’s approach, not simply his readiness to overlook the rules, but his confidence that it was justified. ‘You forget what’s at stake,’ he said. ‘If it all goes wrong Mr D could end up with nothing – no money and no children.’

  ‘But our man had spelt out the risks to him?’

  ‘Well, yes . . . But Mr D’s deaf to things he doesn’t want to hear. He’s a man with tunnel vision. Obsessed with the case, obsessed with getting his children back. It’s all black and white to him. Either the world’s for him or it’s against him, and there’s not a lot in between.’

  Mike gave Hugh a long, thoughtful look. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘forget the mights and maybes, and all that stuff. There’s only one serious piece of advice I’d give our man. And that’s not to lose any more sleep over this case. He’s done all he can, he can do no more. He should let it go now, leave it at the door.’

  ‘That’s what Lizzie says.’

  Mike raised his glass a little in tribute. ‘Well, sh
e’s dead right.’

  From the depths of sleep he thought he heard someone calling his name, but the voice was a long way off and faded almost immediately, to be swallowed up by a dream in which people he didn’t recognise crowded a strange room and Lizzie was nowhere in sight. Everyone was laughing so loudly they were making Hugh’s head ache, he had trouble making himself heard, and without any windows open the heat was stifling. When the voice came again, it was closer, more insistent, a summons. As he began to haul himself into wakefulness, he was aware of clammy heat and a heavy head and a parched mouth. Opening an eye he saw in the dim light a wall with posters and strange curtains, and struggled to remember where he was. Then the voice again, very close now.

  ‘Hugh? Wake up.’

  Hugh turned over and saw a large figure silhouetted against an open door. He tried to speak, but his tongue adhered to the roof of his mouth. He swallowed with difficulty and felt fire in his throat. ‘What is it?’ he managed at last.

  ‘Charlie on the phone for you,’ Mike said, holding out a portable.

  As he sat up, Hugh’s brain felt so heavy he thought he must have been drugged. Swinging his feet to the floor, he said, ‘Christ, sorry about this, Mike.’

  ‘Hey.’ Mike shrugged it aside and handed him the phone.

  As Hugh put the phone to his ear it could have been two years ago, when time had meant nothing to Charlie and he had called in the night, at dawn, whenever he was in trouble or needing money or to be collected from Accident and Emergency, or, once, from the local nick. Are we back into all that again? Hugh wondered wearily. Are we back where we started?

  ‘Charlie?’

  ‘Dad,’ Charlie said with a ragged gasp. ‘I’ve been trying to find you.’ His voice was tense, high-pitched. ‘Dad, something’s happened.’

  ‘What is it?’ Even as he remembered his promise to Lizzie to stay calm, he felt exasperation stirring in his stomach.

  ‘It’s Mum. There’s been an accident.’

  Hugh’s heart gave a slow thud of foreboding. ‘What the hell’s happened?’ he demanded. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘It’s not me,’ Charlie protested in a choked voice. ‘Dad – it’s the house. There was a fire. And Mum – Mum was inside.’