‘When he came back into the bedroom, he went straight over to the laptop again, but he was clutching the towel to him as though his life depended on it.’ He sighed. ‘I had this amused, random thought about how modest youngsters are, how embarrassed by their bodies. But I said nothing.’
He seemed lost in this particular memory; his face had softened, his eyes filled. I could see that he was reliving whatever it was that had happened next. I sat and waited, afraid to interrupt.
‘I was lying on my bed, dozing. I let Daniel think that I was asleep. I thought it might make him less self-conscious. He spent a few minutes at the laptop and then went to go back into the bathroom, I suppose to get dressed. But the towel got snagged on something – I don’t know what, maybe the door handle – it doesn’t matter. The towel fell away from him and I saw his thigh, his left thigh, completely uncovered.’
He looked over at me. I have never seen my father so distraught, so beyond himself. ‘His thigh was cut, again and again, just here,’ he motioned to the top of his own thigh, ‘and I swear I saw more scars higher up, onto his abdomen. I don’t think I even properly knew what I was looking at.’
And then he cried. My father wept, his body crouched forward, broken.
I went to him and held him. After a few moments, when he was quieter, I asked him: ‘Did you speak to Daniel about this?’
He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘God forgive me, but I didn’t. I was so shocked I didn’t know what to do. I knew that the marks had to have been made by his own hand. I decided to wait until Ella arrived. I thought she’d know how to handle it.’
‘And?’
He shrugged. ‘I couldn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. They were so happy to see each other, and he seemed to be fine for the rest of the holiday. I promised myself I’d tackle it when we got home. And then – I began to question myself. Had I imagined it? Had I been asleep and dreamed it? But I know I didn’t.’
‘Have you told Ella any of this?’
He shook his head. I moved back a little. I needed to see his face. ‘Dad, you have to tell her. You can’t keep this to yourself.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s eating me. What’s more, Gillian called yesterday afternoon, after you guys left. I’d asked her, very quietly, to let me know the results of the post-mortem. She spoke to Dr Tracey for me. She said that Daniel had been self-harming for some time, at least a year. And that there were some fresh cuts, on his forearms. Probably made in the last couple of weeks.’ He looked defeated. ‘I’ll have to tell Ella. But I have no idea how.’ He met my eyes again, his own full of appeal. ‘How in Christ’s name am I going to tell her?’
‘I don’t know, Dad,’ I said. ‘But you must, and soon. It could be the start.’ I reached over to him, took his hands in mine again.
‘Of what?’ he looked suddenly fearful.
‘Of finding out why.’ I didn’t need to say any more. My father had always taught us that there is nothing more powerful than knowledge. ‘And Ella would want to know – just as you want to, just as you need to know.’ I was suddenly filled with fear for my own children; filled with terror as to what their secret lives might be concealing from me. I needed to get home straight away.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, you’re right. We need to know.’
He looked suddenly more like himself as he spoke. His face reminded me of the time all those years ago after my mother died. That night, Eugene’s insistence on therapy had given my father a new and urgent sense of purpose. It was the beginning of his recovery.
‘You’re right,’ he said again. ‘I’ll do it, once the funeral is over. I’ll wait until Ella is a little more rested. But I’ll tell her.’
I believed him. We spoke of the funeral on the coming Thursday, of the days after that. Of the need for some oasis of normality from time to time.
‘We’re drifting,’ he said. ‘I have to put a bit of structure back.’
I was shocked. What did you expect? I wanted to say. But of course I didn’t. I realized that that response was absolutely in keeping with my father, with his rigorous, scientific view of the world and how it worked. By the time I left, he was calmer. ‘Will you sleep?’ I asked as I was leaving.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘At least for a few hours.’
At the front door, he hugged me. ‘Thanks, Rebecca. Goodnight, now. And drive safely.’
I held onto him for a little while longer. I couldn’t speak. And anyway, right then, there was really nothing left to say.
As I drove home, back to my family, I was consumed by memories of Daniel. As a sweet child, as a talented musician, as my father’s son. And then I imagined him sitting, with a blade in his hand, cutting deep into his own flesh. Hiding, leading a secret life; suffering.
Then I cried. All the way home.
I could not wait to be back with my own children.
Patrick
AS SOON AS REBECCA and I had waved goodbye, I’d crept up the stairs to look in on Ella. She was asleep – if that’s what you could call it. She lay in the grip of that still, drugged oblivion that she disliked, but upon which I insisted. The days were already much too long. By mid afternoon, Ella seemed to crumble, as though her allotted span of energy for the day had just run out. To sleep, even for an hour or two, meant that we could sit out the evening together, doing whatever needed to be done, sharing whatever comfort we could.
The mornings were the worst. Each of us, on waking, knew that we had to face yet another day without Daniel. And we still had the funeral to get through.
That afternoon, after Rebecca left – perhaps it was the whiskey, or the heat of the conservatory after I’d closed the curtains, or perhaps the longing for even a brief moment of forgetting: any one of these on their own might have done it. I sat in the armchair and I slept.
But there was no respite. My dreams were filled with my son.
Daniel, knocking at the window, begging me to let him in. But I couldn’t. Each time I tried to struggle towards him, he moved further away. My feet were planted in quick-drying cement; I kept faltering, keeling over in my eagerness to get to him. A tapping sound filled the room. It wrenched me back towards wakefulness, my heart pounding.
And then, at last, I opened my eyes.
I stumbled into standing. My whole body was drenched in perspiration. For a moment, I stood there, confused. I knew where I was, but the room looked unfamiliar, the furniture ghostly. Then the tapping came again, but gently, hesitantly. There was nothing insistent about it: it was tentative, like a question. There was somebody at the front door. I moved towards the hallway, as quickly as I could.
I opened the door to find Maryam standing there, her eyes red and raw-looking. Edward was at her side, hunched. His eyes searched the ground, as though he had just lost something.
‘Maryam,’ I said. I made a huge effort to sound welcoming. I also made a physical effort to shrug off the fog of sleep. Seeing her there, I felt guilty all over again for having shut her out on Sunday night. The poor woman had done nothing wrong. And she’d called yesterday, too. I’d seen her: the way she backed away from the gate, once she saw Frances’s and Rebecca’s cars. I opened the door wider. ‘And Edward. Please, come in, both of you.’
They followed me inside, Maryam’s eyes darting everywhere. She was looking for Ella, of course.
‘Ella is resting, Maryam. But I’ll tell her you called. She will appreciate you both being here.’
Maryam held out her hands to me. The words she spoke were careful, measured. Her simple dignity moved me. ‘Patrick, I am so very sorry for your loss,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘Rahul and I and all our family give you our deepest sympathies,’ and then she couldn’t do it any more. She wept without restraint. She bowed her head, but held onto my hand and I drew her towards me, putting one arm around her shoulder.
‘Thank you, Maryam. You are both very good to call.’ I looked towards Edward. His face was contorted and I felt suddenly, bitterly sorry for
him. For all the adult suffering that had suddenly been foisted upon him.
‘We loved him,’ Maryam sobbed. ‘Your boy. Like our own family.’
‘I know, I know,’ I soothed. ‘Please, Maryam, sit down, and Edward, you too. Let me get you both something.’
‘Maryam.’ Ella stood in the doorway. Pale, haunted-looking, but somehow more composed than she had been yesterday morning when Rebecca had first arrived. Nevertheless, I stood guard, afraid for just a moment of what she might do.
Maryam got up at once and went straight to her. She took Ella in her arms and they stood together, holding onto each other for some time. It reminded me of that June day in our garden, the day of our wedding party; Maryam and Ella had embraced then, too.
But I didn’t want to think about that.
Then Ella walked over towards Edward, holding out her hand. I was proud of her. She did not flinch. ‘Edward. So good to see you. Let me make us all some tea.’
We sat, the four of us, in an atmosphere that for those moments, at least, had lost some of its rawness. Ella and Maryam made tea, and we drank it together, the biscuits untasted before us. Out of the blue, Edward spoke.
‘Daniel was my best friend,’ he said.
Oh, God, I thought. I can’t bear this. I interrupted him: I needed to temper the steel of this moment or Ella would slip away from me again.
‘We know that, Edward. You’ve always been a wonderful friend. And Daniel knew that, too.’ I reached out, patted his shoulder.
‘You don’t understand,’ he said suddenly. His voice was choked. ‘There was something wrong, on Sunday—’
I could see Maryam flash him a warning glance, saw Ella catch it in flight.
She put down her cup. ‘Tell us, Edward. Patrick and I would like to know what you think was wrong. Please, it would help us. You are safe here – you can say whatever it is you’re thinking.’
Edward glanced over at his mother and she nodded.
‘I have only started playing football,’ he began. ‘Just since we went back to school this year. I’m only a sub, but I like it.’
He sounded defensive and I wondered why.
‘When Daniel came over to us on Sunday, he’d forgotten that I had an extra practice session. We have a match on Thursday . . . I mean . . .’ his voice trailed off. He looked stricken. Two days ago, he’d been preparing for a football match; now he’d a funeral to go to. He struggled for a moment, then he began again. ‘But Daniel wanted to do other stuff.’ He shifted uncomfortably on the chair.
‘What other stuff?’ Ella asked, gently, before I could.
‘He’d brought his camera. He wanted us to cycle over to the bird sanctuary again, but I couldn’t.’
The misery in the boy’s face made my heart ache for him. I admired the way he held Ella’s gaze, though. He didn’t falter.
‘He was angry with me. When I wouldn’t go, he just ran off. I tried to text him later, but he didn’t answer.’ Edward slumped forward.
Maryam watched her son. The room filled with a tense, expectant silence. I felt it necessary to break it. ‘You did well to tell us, Edward,’ I said.
Ella leaned forward. ‘Edward. Look at me.’
He did, his eyes filled to overflowing.
‘This is not your fault. Nothing Daniel did is your fault. I want you to hear that.’
He started to sob, loud, choking sounds that were startlingly male, as though he had aged from boy to man since he came through the front door. ‘But he wouldn’t talk. He just slammed down the stairs and out the—’
Ella reached across and took his hand. ‘This is not your fault, Edward. You are very brave to come here. You are not responsible for this. What I would like is for you to tell us, his dad and me, everything that you can about the past three weeks since you went back to school. Can you do that?’
I sat back in amazement and watched my wife. Somehow, I felt the faintest, most fragile stirrings of hope in the way she spoke to Edward. Gently, so gently, that the boy finally allowed himself to be comforted.
‘He was fine,’ Edward concluded. ‘Really. Everything was fine. This year, the Jays pretty much left us alone. It was way easier than first year.’
‘The Jays?’ Ella asked quickly. ‘Who are they?’
Edward looked uncomfortable. ‘They’re just three guys, sometimes four. Last year, they pushed us around a bit, but this year there’s been nothin’.’
‘What do you mean, “pushed you around”? How did they do that?’ I asked. This was dangerous territory for me. I could feel my anger rising already.
Edward shrugged. ‘One of them stuck a compass in Daniel once; they broke his violin. And they used to call us names.’
I began to feel fear settling around my heart. How much did this boy know? How much was he about to reveal to Ella, before I could prepare her? I sat forward on my chair. There was nothing I could do except wait.
‘What sort of names?’ Ella was watching him intently.
‘They called me Paki, or darkie. Sometimes nigger.’
I saw Maryam look away.
‘And Daniel?’ Ella’s voice was soft.
Edward looked distressed.
‘It’s okay, Edward,’ I said. ‘We’ll have heard them all before. Don’t worry. Just say them.’
‘Gay boy. Queer. Steamer. Things like that. But not this year,’ he added quickly. ‘There’s been nothin’ this year, I swear.’
Ella caught my eye. I sat back again, said nothing. ‘These boys,’ she said quietly. ‘Do you know them well?’
Edward hung his head. For a moment, he didn’t speak. ‘A bit,’ he said. ‘Just this term, since we went back, like.’ He raised his head and looked across at us. ‘They’re on the football team.’
I felt as though I had been slapped. Something, some knowledge hung in the air around us; I had the sense of things beginning to shift into place. I could see Daniel as he must have been on Sunday. His disappointment; his best friend playing football with the enemy. His sense of betrayal. But that wasn’t enough, surely, to drive him to do what he did.
There was something else, there had to be. A bleak memory of the hotel room in Madrid suddenly made it harder to breathe.
‘What are their names?’ Ella asked. Seeing Edward’s troubled face, she added, quickly, ‘It’s just for us to know, Edward. We would never involve you in anything.’
He nodded. ‘There are three of them, well, four really, but Leo’s kind of on the outside.’
We waited.
‘Jeremy Toolin, he’s in third year, and then James McNamara and Jason MacManus. They’re second years. And Leo Byrne, he kind of hung around with them.’
I saw Ella stiffen.
‘Jason was the worst, though. He always started it.’
Some memory began to stir, somewhere at the back of my head. Something that had to do with that name. Jason. It felt important, whatever it was. I cursed my growing forgetfulness. I’d learned recently that if I stopped trying to force it, the memory would come back eventually, sometimes in the most bizarre way. It would be dragged to the surface of that murky pond of forgetting by the most unexpected of hooks.
‘Thank you, Edward. You’ve really helped us. Thank you.’ Ella squeezed his hand.
Maryam stood. ‘We should go. You both need to rest. Is there anything we can do for you? Anything at all?’ I could hear the entreaty in her voice.
Ella tried to smile. ‘Thank you, Maryam. I think that you and Edward have already done it. We’re very grateful.’
Maryam bent and kissed her. Edward shook our hands, awkwardly. He was anxious to be gone, and I couldn’t blame him. I saw them both to the front door.
When I came back, Ella was writing something.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘The names,’ she said. ‘They could be important.’
I nodded. What could I say? That it wouldn’t matter who they were, that bullying was a fact of life, that nothing we could ever do would change that
fact? I was angry. And I didn’t want to be angry with her. Pete Mackey’s taunting face loomed up in front of me, his features reappearing after some sixty years. I felt the satisfaction of breaking his jaw all over again.
‘Edward said that Jason was the worst,’ Ella said.
Then I remembered her reaction when Jason’s name had been mentioned. ‘Do you know him?’ I was puzzled.
She looked at me. ‘His family emigrated when he was about nine. To the States. They only came back last year, during the summer. Don’t you remember?’
I shook my head, frustrated with myself.
‘It’s Jason MacManus,’ Ella said softly.
But I hardly heard her. Something important had finally struggled to the surface, getting in the way. ‘T-shirt Boy,’ I said suddenly. ‘That’s who it was. When Daniel was the T-shirt Boy.’ I was exultant. I had remembered.
It was Ella’s turn to be puzzled.
‘Don’t you remember? When Daniel rescued some poor little scrap in the playground who was being bullied? Oh, it’s years ago. Daniel must have been about eight. I can’t remember the child’s name, but I remember the bully.’
She nodded, slowly. ‘Jason MacManus.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that’s the name.’
She looked at me. ‘Jason MacManus. Jason MacManus is Fintan MacManus’s son.’
For a moment, I didn’t understand. When I did, I felt my legs give way, my eyes cloud over. I have never, ever, experienced such a rush of pure rage in all my adult life. ‘Jesus Christ,’ I said.
‘We have to find out more, Patrick. We have to find out everything. It’s the only way we are going to survive this.’
I nodded. ‘Yes.’
Ella was looking at me, her eyes full of appeal. But there was something else. She was present again, present in a way she had hardly been since Sunday.
Now was the time. I had to try. I couldn’t keep it from her any longer.
‘I have something to tell you, Ella. I don’t want to, but I can’t hold onto it any longer.’
The Things We Know Now Page 21
