A Station on the Path to Somewhere Better

by Benjamin Wood

  But then I felt the car begin to slow. We turned down a side road and pulled into the disused car park of a bankrupt carpet showroom. The windows of the shop were whitewashed, swirled with gypsum. My father, for some reason, steered into a bay right by the entrance, bumping the nettles on the kerb. I could see our dumb reflections in the frontage. ‘If you take your fucking arm off me, QC,’ he said, half strangled, ‘I’ll let you out.’

  ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like I don’t know. Just don’t try anything.’

  ‘I honestly wouldn’t know what to try.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  QC released his hold. My father got out and, for a moment, he just stood beside the car. I could only see his midriff, his pink hands on his hips.

  ‘Hey, snap out of it,’ said QC, knuckling the window. I expected he’d bolt as soon as the door opened, but he didn’t. He stayed there, blinking at me, while my father held it back for him, chauffeur style. The local sunshine angled in, a feeble brightness. ‘He used to be all right, your dad, you know. He used to be all right.’ And he gave a sigh of great finality, twisting to get out. ‘Watch yourself, Dan, eh?’ I thought he was going to abandon me, too. It seemed hopeless to stop him. But no sooner had QC laid his trainers on the tarmac, he turned round. ‘Hang on, I don’t like how this feels. I want to know what you’re planning to do, Fran.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to get out,’ my father said, flatly.

  QC slid further along the seat. ‘Yeah, but first I want to know where you’re heading.’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘Well, in that case,’ said QC, ‘I don’t think in all good conscious I can leave him with you.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Fran Hardesty was laughing. ‘That’s my son you’re talking about. You’re not his social worker.’

  ‘Someone’s got to look out for him, haven’t they?’

  ‘Are you saying I’m not?’

  ‘I’m saying you’re not thinking straight right now.’

  ‘You’re not my social worker, either.’

  My father’s shadow wavered in the shopfront glass. By a strange trick of the light, and the way the car door covered him, he almost seemed to levitate. A block of flats was visible beyond him, in the reflected distance. A new development trussed with scaffolding. I could’ve reached it, if I’d thought to run. I could’ve made it to the Metropole. But I didn’t understand this was my opportunity.

  QC said: ‘The fights you’re fighting don’t involve him, Fran.’

  ‘Do I look like I’m fighting anyone?’

  ‘Maybe not yet. But I know where you’re going.’

  ‘And where’s that?’

  ‘Chloe’s.’

  ‘Just get out the car. You’re bothering me now.’

  ‘Nah, I think I’ll stay.’

  ‘Okay then. Suit yourself. But you go where we go.’

  ‘Fine.’

  My father slammed the door. When he dropped back into the driver’s seat, he gripped the rear-view mirror and repositioned it so it was trained on nothing but QC. ‘By the way, genius,’ he said, ‘it’s in all good conscience, not in all good conscious. And that child lock’s still on back there.’

  ‘Just drive,’ QC told him. ‘I’m sick of all your dramas.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ My father didn’t put his seatbelt on. ‘Keep your hands where I can see ’em this time.’

  As he fired the ignition, I asked: ‘Who’s Chloe?’

  He seemed heartened by my question. ‘Chloe’s the reason we’re sat here,’ he said, reaching for the glovebox. ‘And I’m tired of sitting, Dan, aren’t you?’

  Some houses are more vulnerable than others. The place that Chloe Cargill rented stood at the summit of a sloping avenue. It was semi-detached, with a large bay window on the ground floor and a gable roof, and was adjoined to what appeared to be its better turned-out twin—next door had a coat of white emulsion, neat black drainpipes, privets freshly clipped; Chloe’s place had drab beige render, wonky guttering, bad grass. And it had the disadvantage of being first on the row. The south-facing part of it was open to a side road, which divided it from a long bank of terraced properties. These were mostly flats whose back windows were all barred and looked out over wooden sheds and flagstone yards and garages. Trees and wild hedges lined the path. There was one lamp post covering the juncture where this side road met the avenue proper, but the hood of it was smashed and the bulb was missing. The track itself was gravel-chipped, and the further you looked along it, the more of it was swallowed up by weeds and mud; it was hard to imagine that anyone used it as a short cut, given that it led to nowhere any quicker, but dustbins were left out there in an ordered fashion, so it must’ve been a through-route for collection lorries. None of this took my attention at the time, of course, but I’ve since studied pictures on the news reports, and I’ll say again: some houses are more vulnerable than others. Most people see a family home on a quiet suburban street, they imagine what it might be like to live in it, where they might position their own furniture inside, how differently they’d dress the windows, plant the garden, paint the brickwork. But the days when I could see a house without gauging how its weaknesses might be exploited are long gone. Now every house has the potential to be Chloe’s house again.

  By the time we got there, all the summer promise had been lifted from the sky and a fine rain had accreted on the windscreen. My father parked up right outside the gate, on the gravel of the side road. It was hard to tell if anyone was home—bamboo blinds were rolled down in the porch and the curtains were still drawn in the bay window. But my father took another view on this.

  ‘How exactly are you going to play it?’ QC asked him, in the calm after the engine noise. ‘What if she’s not there?’

  ‘She’s there,’ my father said.

  ‘How d’you know that?’

  ‘The curtains are all shut. She only opens them if she goes out.’ He yanked the door lever. ‘And, anyway, you’re staying in the car. You wanted to play families? Fine. You’re the babysitter.’ He got out before QC could muster a reply.

  We watched him take a slow spin on the asphalt, his eyes scanning the house. He stood by the bonnet while he tucked his shirt-tail into his cords. ‘What the fuck’s he up to?’ said QC to me, under his breath. I didn’t like the look of it, either. There was a slant to my father’s gait, a restlessness about him. He kept rubbing the sores on his knuckles. I heard him say, ‘Christ, I need a proper smoke,’ and saw him spitting drily at the ground. After a moment, he came around my side of the car and opened the boot. QC kneeled up on the seat to get a view of him; I did the same. My father started rummaging around inside the bin liners.

  ‘What are you looking for back there?’ QC said.

  ‘My jacket,’ he answered. ‘If that’s all right.’

  He continued pulling clothes from the bin liner, casting them aside. The boot began to clot with crumpled jeans and shirts and jumpers.

  QC pressed him: ‘What d’you need a jacket for? It’s barely raining.’

  My father carried on. There was a set of painting overalls at the bottom of the bag, and he considered them for half a second before dropping them on the pile. ‘Shit, where is it?’

  ‘There’s two jackets right there,’ said QC, pointing.

  ‘That’s not the one I need. I want the one she gave me.’

  ‘Oh.’ QC turned to glance up at the house, as though the walls were listening. ‘Why?’

  ‘She wanted it back.’

  ‘But you’re gonna wear it?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To make a point.’ My father ripped the next bin bag apart and let the contents fall into his hands. ‘Found it.’ He gathered up the jacket—a limp denim thing with a sheepskin collar—flashing it at us briefly, as though it were a matador’s cape. And, with that, he shut the boot. As he went back around the car, he stopped by my window an
d pulled on the jacket. My holdall was at his feet.

  ‘Hey, that’s my bag,’ I said, instinctively.

  QC leaned forward to call to him: ‘What’s the bag for, Fran?’

  My father reached and opened my door. ‘Changed my mind,’ he said. ‘It’s best if you come with me.’

  ‘Let me out, then,’ said QC.

  ‘Not you. Him.’ My father hooked his hand under my armpit and tugged upwards. ‘Take off that seatbelt. Hurry up. I want Chloe to meet you.’

  I unclipped it.

  But QC took my elbow, and started pulling down as I tried to get out. ‘Hang on, hang on, I don’t think—’ he said.

  ‘Just sit tight,’ my father told him. ‘This won’t take long, I promise. I’ll drop you both home straight after.’ And QC must’ve heard the evenness of his tone and trusted it, because he let me go.

  My father stooped to collect my bag, then I felt his hand move to the centre of my back. Prodding at my spine, he guided me towards the gate. My legs obliged him. I undid the latch and went into the front garden. The porch step was crested with dandelions. ‘Go on, press the bell,’ he told me. So I pushed the button and it rang out a sharp buzz, almost industrial. For a time, it seemed that nobody was going to answer, and my father’s patience was short. He strode forwards and held the button down. That’s when I saw the bulk of something nestled in the rear pocket of his cords.

  I could go on claiming that I had no inkling what this object in his pocket was before he brought it out and used it. But I knew—I had to know. Maybe I only saw the shape of it under the corduroy, but I understood where it had come from. He’d swiped it from a bucket in the boot.

  Chloe took a while to unbolt the door. It was long past noon, and she gave off the shuffling, fragile quality of someone who’d only just awoken from a night of heavy drinking. Her dark hair was lustreless and limply knotted. She was wearing dungarees and a white vest, one strap hanging at her hip. Her feet were bare, and she had a beaded ankle bracelet, rainbow-coloured. The drizzly daylight seemed to affect her whole constitution—she withered in the face of it. Her response to seeing us on her porch step was a disbelieving sort of laughter: a breathy Ho, ho, ho. ‘No way. No way on earth,’ she said, a coarseness to her voice. ‘You just don’t listen, do you, Francis?’

  But he was not deterred. He pulled me closer. My head fit in the hollow of his armpit. ‘A polite hello would’ve been nice,’ he said. ‘I mean, seeing how we’ve travelled all this way to see you. Well, not you exactly, but you get my drift. We’ve definitely travelled a long way.’

  She turned her eyes to me, brow tensing, but said nothing.

  ‘You needn’t look at him like that,’ my father told her. ‘He’s not done anything wrong.’

  At this point, she seemed to recognise that the exchange was veering in an unforeseen direction. I could tell she was perturbed, if not yet frightened. Her leaning arm moved to the deadbolt. She retreated a pace, saying: ‘Look, just leave me alone, okay. I’ve said everything I want to say to you.’

  ‘Well, no. I think you owe my son here an apology.’

  ‘Who?’

  He ruffled my hair. ‘His name is Daniel, by the way. But you knew that already.’

  She didn’t acknowledge me.

  ‘Look, if you don’t go away, I’ll have to—’

  ‘What? Come on, it’s Dan that wants to talk to you, not me,’ my father said, getting nearer. ‘He’s confused about what’s been happening. So much disruption and waiting around. See, we couldn’t get on set today. Nor yesterday for that matter. You know, after all the promises I made him. So I was thinking you’d explain to him why that might be.’

  The silence was cut only by the birds.

  Chloe wiped her mouth and glanced back into the house. I noticed how thin she was compared to Karen and my mother, especially: the caps of her shoulders jutted from her vest like hard-boiled egg-tops, her breastbone was a dish. She was trying to think of something to say to me. Then I suppose it dawned on her—she must’ve decided that my presence was somehow benign, even protective. She must’ve thought I was indemnity. Looking down at me, at last, she said, ‘I don’t know what to tell you, Daniel. Your father made some very bad decisions.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said.

  ‘No. Not okay,’ he said, shunting me forwards. ‘Not okay at all. Can we come in and talk to you?’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I’m not letting you in,’ and she tried to shut the door on us. But my father had prepared for this: he threw my bag into the threshold, jamming the door, and before she could remove it, he said: ‘At least let him use your toilet.’

  ‘No, Dad, I’m all right,’ I said.

  ‘Shush. Chloe doesn’t mind.’

  She mused on it a moment, narrow-eyed. ‘Then what?’ she said. ‘Then you’ll leave?’

  ‘Yeah. Absolutely.’

  Without peering down, she drew my bag in with her foot, into the hallway. ‘You’re not getting this back until you’re out of here,’ she said. ‘I’ll go up and chuck it out the window.’

  ‘Don’t get shirty. I wanted you to look him in the eye, that’s all,’ my father told her. ‘You’ve done that now, so I feel better. I think I’ve made my point.’ He stood there, scratching his stubble. ‘Oh, and here. I brought you this, too. You said you wanted it.’ Off came the denim jacket. He gave it the politest of throws, and she caught it, one-handed.

  She said, ‘I never lent it to you in the first place.’

  ‘That’s right, you didn’t. I’m just not very good at letting go of things. You know how it is.’ He waited. ‘So, can we use your loo, or what?’

  ‘He can.’ She nodded at me. ‘You’re staying right there.’

  ‘Off you go then, Danno.’

  I didn’t move.

  ‘Don’t get stage fright on me now,’ he said.

  I started walking.

  ‘He’s been really upset,’ my father told her. ‘Maybe you can tell. Look at his eyes. He’s cried the whole way here.’

  She had no reply.

  If I hadn’t drunk two cups of tea at breakfast, I might’ve been able to resist for longer, but Chloe started beckoning me towards her like a landed aircraft, so I did what I thought was best. She kept her eyes locked on my father as she hinged the door back. ‘It’s straight down the hallway, past the kitchen, to your left,’ she said. ‘Don’t touch anything.’

  There was not a single light on in the house, just a permeating brightness from the kitchen. Music was playing inside. Trumpets squealing to a syncopated dance beat—jazz, but not. The woodchip in the hall was painted over, dolphin blue. Whoever did the decorating in that house was not my father—every wall was patchy, badly finished. The kitchen sink was full of dishes; the window gave a view of plastic lawn chairs toppled in high grass. A giant pan was cooling on the stove. Imagine walking right in off the street, into a stranger’s home—that was how it was, and that was how it felt.

  In her downstairs toilet, she had hung an old dressing-room mirror; it was edged with bulbs that did not work. And there were pictures of her everywhere in crooked Perspex frames, in which she postured happily with other women—friends, I assumed—at weddings, in sunny foreign resorts, on snowy pistes. I studied them while my bladder emptied, looking for my father’s face. He wasn’t pictured. Maybe, I thought. Maybe things are fine now. Maybe he’ll take me home.

  I washed my hands and dried them on her damp orange towel. On the way out, it occurred to me that Chloe would have a telephone—I hadn’t seen one in the hallway, but perhaps I’d missed it in the kitchen.

  I found it mounted on the wall next to the fridge. It had one of those long wires, stretched so much the plastic coils were slack. I dialled my house and waited. The gentle dance loops were still pulsing in the living room, a saxophone filling the blanks. When I heard my mother’s formal voice, the buoyancy went out of me: ‘Hello, you’ve reached the answerphone of Kathleen Jarrett. If you leave your name and number, I’ll get ba
ck to you. Here comes the beep. Thanks a lot!’

  How many times had I lain on the carpet of our lounge with the television on while she sat behind me, checking her messages? How many times had I listened to those clumsy little orations people left for her and giggled at them? But, when the time came to record a message of my own, I became so self-aware, so concerned about the right way to phrase it that I rambled like a child reporting back the plot of some new film he’d seen.

  I told her not to worry, I was fine. I told her I was still in Leeds—did she know a friend of Dad’s named Chloe? We were at her house. I didn’t know where it was exactly, but we’d passed the cricket stadium to get there. I told her that we never made it onto set, as promised. I told her about the pub in Rothwell. I told her that I didn’t know exactly why we couldn’t get on set, but it had something to do with Chloe. I played the whole thing down. I told her that I thought we might be coming home soon. I told her I would ring her when I had the chance, but didn’t really know when that would be yet. I told her that I wanted to spend the rest of summer with her in Little Missenden. I told her that I wanted to see Grandpa. I told her that I missed her and I loved her, and hung up when I sensed that the machine was going to cut me off.

  The next thing, I was standing in another person’s kitchen. Speaking to the answerphone had transported me away. I’d been picturing my own house, the worn arm of the sofa where my mother perched to replay messages, and now I was alone again. The rhythms on the stereo had mellowed into snare-drum patter. I went out along the hallway. Chloe was not there. In fact, the door was hanging open where Chloe should’ve been: I could see all the way across the street. The house opposite had bedsheets for curtains, hung on plastic washing lines. ‘Dad,’ I called. ‘Where are you?’ And I checked the living room on my way past. But there was no sign of them, only a grey couch covered in blankets and a record sleeve left on the cabinet: Boulevard, St Germain. ‘Hello?’ I called. ‘Where is everyone?’ My holdall was half on the threshold, half on the porch step. It seemed lighter when I picked it up. I remember hoping they’d gone off without me—feeling the relief of it like medication. So I walked out to the garden thinking there would be no Volvo waiting on the gravel. But I saw the bonnet’s rusty blue, and all the blood went heavy in my legs.