The Dinner Guest

by B P Walter

  When we pull up outside the house, a few beats of silence pass, then she says, ‘I understand all of this must be a shock for you, and I can’t imagine you’ll want to go through it all now. I’m just … just very thankful you’re both safe. It’s all a terrible tragedy, and we’ve undoubtedly got some difficult days ahead of us. So let’s all get some rest, and tomorrow we can face the day with stronger and clearer minds.’

  It’s sort of like a hybrid between a speech a coach does before a sports game and a priest at a funeral. I’m not in the right state to match it, or reply in any way at all, so I just nod then turn around to Titus. A single tear is falling down along the bridge of his nose. When he sees me looking he wipes it and then opens the door. Both Mum and I follow his lead and we all walk into the house.

  ‘I phoned your father,’ Mum says as soon as the door has closed. ‘He’s flying back from New York as soon as he can.’

  I nod. ‘Will he be coming here or going to his house?’

  My mother and father have a relationship I once considered unusual, but as the years have gone by, I’ve realised it isn’t as uncommon as one might think. They’re just more no-nonsense about it than most. After marrying in their late twenties, having me and then steadily growing apart, they opted for a compromise rather than a divorce: they have their own houses but they still do things as a couple. They go to dinners, to the theatre and opera, even holidays, but most of the year they live separated, albeit geographically close to each other. When he’s in London, my father resides in a house on St George’s Square, Pimlico, where I spent most of my time growing up, in between school and our country home, Braddon Manor. My mother’s house in Wilton Crescent was purchased during termtime when I was thirteen years old. I just visited home one day to find a removal firm carrying out boxes, with my mother supervising. She turned to me and said, ‘I’m moving house, darling. Join me in the car on the drive there and I’ll tell you all about it.’ And from that day on, my life was fragmented. Of course, I’m well aware that my broken home isn’t, in the grand scheme of things, anything to complain about compared to what some children go through. My parents never had shrieking rows, never threw plates, were never nasty or cruel to me or to each other. They just decided the best way to manage the latter part of their marriage was to do it separately. And because of the wealth my family is lucky enough to have, they can do it from the comfort of two townhouses in Central London.

  ‘Why don’t you both go and get some of your own clothes on,’ Mum says, noticing me looking down at the tracksuits the police have given us. ‘Or your pyjamas,’ she says this more to Titus than to me. ‘I’m sure you’ll feel more comfortable.’

  Titus nods and mutters, ‘I want to have a bath.’

  I know how he feels. It’s like we’ve somehow been infected with the horror of what’s happened – like the invisible residue of the shock and the brutality of it still clings to our skin.

  ‘Of course, dear,’ Mum says. ‘Would you like me to run it for you?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I’ll be fine.’ He then disappears upstairs, leaving Mum and me standing in the hallway in the spot where he’d just been seconds before. I can feel the air alive with tension. With all the things she wants to ask, all the things I want to say and not to say. But again, my mother surprises me once again by saying, ‘You should go up with Titus. Keep an eye on him. You understand me?’

  I meet her eyes. Then nod. ‘Of course.’ I start to go up the stairs, then turn back to her. ‘Mum,’ I say. She shakes her head, and walks away from me towards the kitchen. I pause on the stairs for a moment, then go back down the two I had climbed and follow her.

  ‘I would have thought … you’d have wanted to talk.’

  She pours herself a glass of water and is eyeing me over the gleaming countertop. ‘I told you to go upstairs and keep an eye on Titus. There’ll be plenty of time to talk later when your father’s home. I doubt you’d like to go through the whole business more than once, so I suggest you go and get some rest.’

  I look at her, uncertainty and concern bubbling somewhere within me.

  ‘Please, Charles. I do have questions I want answered, particularly about Rachel and Titus. But now isn’t the time. Please go and check on your son. I really don’t think I should have to say it again.’

  Our eyes remain locked for another few seconds. Then I relent and leave the kitchen, taking the stairs two at a time.

  Titus shouts at me when I enter the bathroom without knocking. He pulls his legs up close and looks at me with outrage on his face.

  ‘I’m sorry. I just wanted … to make sure you were OK.’

  His head turns away from me, his eyes resting on the still gushing tap. There’s something strangely comforting about the sound of the running water, and I feel crushingly exhausted all of a sudden. I sit down on the closed loo seat and put my head in my hands. ‘I think we should talk,’ I say to the floor.

  I hear the water stop, leaving an odd ringing silence between us. Then: ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ He says it in the small voice of a boy years younger than him. It reminds me of the rare times when he’s got into trouble at school, or lost his homework, or done something wrong at home. Matthew always accused me of rushing to reassure him too quickly, to tell him whatever it is doesn’t matter, and he doesn’t need to be upset about it. ‘Some things do matter, some things are worth being upset about,’ Matthew said to me one time when I’d hugged Titus before the boy had properly explained what was wrong. ‘If you tell him it doesn’t matter, he won’t bother trying.’ I objected to this. Although Matthew wasn’t one of those harsh, tough-love sorts of parents, I didn’t like his occasionally negative outlook on life and its woes. I understand why; he encountered more grief and regret in his teens and twenties than some do in a whole lifetime.

  I focus my gaze on Titus, choose my words carefully, then speak: ‘I think … I think it would be useful, for us going forward, to be clear on what each of us says to the police.’

  He won’t meet my eyes at first. ‘Why?’ he says, still staring at the taps. ‘There’s not much to say, is there? Rachel came into the house while we were having dinner. She killed Dad. She phoned the police.’ His eyes flick up to meet mine, now, and although the bathroom is warm with steam, I suddenly feel a chill run down me.

  ‘That’s it, right?’ he says, unblinking.

  I stare at him, not wanting to move. My body is tense, frozen almost, the intensity between us growing. Eventually I say, ‘Yes. That’s it. That’s what I said, too. Aren’t you … I just thought you’d be wondering why. Why she confessed. Because I…’

  A shake of his head stops me mid-sentence. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. Not now.’

  I consider pressing on, ignoring his protestations, but something in his cold, hard gaze – at odds with the scared little boy he had sounded like moments before – keeps me silent. ‘OK,’ I say. He carries on looking at me for a few seconds more. Perhaps he’s expecting me to leave, but I stay where I am. Then he leans back and stretches out his body and submerges himself under the water, bubbles rising as he lets his breath out. While he’s out of sight, hidden under the rippling water, I let my eyes scan the shelves above the sink. I know Dad still likes to shave with a cut-throat razor, but there is no sign of it here, suggesting he rarely sleeps in my mother’s house these days. Reassured, I get up just as Titus comes up for air.

  ‘I’ll leave you to get dressed,’ I say, heading for the door.

  ‘There’s nothing to get dressed in. I don’t have any clothes here, apart from that,’ he says, jabbing a dripping hand towards the discarded tracksuit on the floor.

  ‘The family liaison officer will be with us tomorrow. She’ll bring some clothes for us from the … from the house.’

  The sentence snags in my mind as I say it. Because it isn’t just our house any longer. It is a crime scene. The site of a murder. Forever to be tainted as such in the minds of whoever knows what’s happened there
. Especially us.

  ‘Fine,’ he says simply. I pick up one of the folded towels from the ledge to the left, and leave it by the side of the bath for him. ‘Try to get some sleep. And come and see me if you need to talk.’

  He nods and reaches for the towel. I leave him to dry himself in private, my heart thumping in my chest, a thousand thoughts scrabbling for attention as I walk towards the guest bedroom Matthew and I always stay in. As soon as I’m in the room, I collapse onto the bed. My head is pounding. Pulling myself up, I reach into the bedside cabinet and scrabble around, sure there is a box of paracetamol or ibuprofen somewhere inside. I find a box and don’t stop to check what the tablets are or if they are within date; I just down two of them dry, the bitter, chemical taste coating my mouth.

  I close my eyes and try to focus on the sweet smell of the fabric softener and the slightly rasping sound the duvet makes as I brush my face along its cool surface, trying to stop my mind dragging me back to the house. Our house. Our dining room. And what happened there. The blood. The noise Matthew made after the stabbing. Him trying to form words while the life dwindled from his eyes. I press my hands into my face, trying to clear the horror from my mind. I don’t succeed. I end up back there, again and again. It’s inevitable. I know by this point in my life that the more you try not to think about something, the more it feasts on every part of your mind. But, in spite of this – or maybe because of it – I still manage to drift off to sleep. A half-sleep. In and out. I swim between dream and memory, thought and fragmented image. I feel hot and cold all at the same time. It’s as if I have flu – really bad, signed-off-work-for-a-week flu. I feel myself starting to shiver, my temperature rising in my head, pressure pounding against my temple. I shed my clothes like some deranged, desperate animal ripping off an old skin; there is something primal and strangely reptilian in the way the ugly grey tracksuit falls from me and I crawl across the bed, naked and new, relishing the sheets for both their coolness and warmth. I pull the duvet round me and clutch onto it like a life-raft. I lie there for hours, but it could have been minutes, or it could have been years. Time has stopped functioning for me. Then, dully, I become aware that someone has entered the room and is trying to talk to me.

  ‘Charles. Can you hear me?’

  There’s a strong dose of urgency in the voice. Mum’s voice. I look up, blinking at the brightness of the light above her head.

  ‘Yeah … what?’ I say, barely comprehensible.

  She leans forward to pick something off the bed. ‘Charles, how many of these have you taken? The ibuprofen and codeine. There’s a whole sheet empty in here. How many tablets did you take?’ I realise she has the box of tablets in her hands and is pulling out the blister pack.

  ‘What?’ I say again, only vaguely understanding the cause of her panic. ‘No. I mean, I haven’t taken too many. Just … two.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ she asks firmly, and I nod.

  She lets out a sigh of relief. ‘Sorry. I just … I was worried.’

  ‘I know. It’s OK.’ I try to sit up. ‘I wouldn’t do that.’

  She nods. ‘I didn’t think you would. But I just got a bit of a fright, seeing you there with the box. Never mind.’

  I rub at my eyes. ‘I don’t feel too well,’ I say.

  ‘It’s the shock,’ she replies. She puts a hand onto my shoulder. I think she’s about to say words of comfort, but instead she says, ‘I’m not stupid. I know what happened. As I said earlier, I don’t want to go through it all until your father gets home. But I promise that we’ll do everything we can to make sure Titus is protected.’ Her voice is low, quiet, and, typically for her, calm and controlled. ‘Your father has already contacted our solicitor. Titus will never see prison, stand trial, or even be arrested by the police. Not if we can help it.’

  Chapter Nine

  Rachel

  Eleven months to go

  Getting caught by Charlie in the bedroom was foolish, but I just had to see for myself. To see where he lived. How he lived. And where his adopted son lived…

  I was disappointed, when I reached the landing, to see one of the doors shut, with music playing from inside. Some sort of opera music, from what I could hear. If only he’d been out, and his room left empty, his door open and inviting. Thankfully, however, the door to the master bedroom was open, its contents there for all the world to see. It was a dangerous thing to do, knowing there was someone else upstairs, but throwing caution to the wind, I stepped forward and walked the length of the landing over to the doorway.

  The air smelled of men’s perfume, plus another note, something fresher. Perhaps they had an air scent plugged into the wall – or would posh people find those vulgar? Before I could notice anything else, I heard movement behind me and I ducked inside the room, crouching down on the soft carpet like a child caught with their hand in the sweet jar.

  But whoever it was hadn’t come for me. Very slowly, I leaned my head out so I could see the landing and, sure enough, the figure of Titus emerged presumably coming from the bathroom and returning to his room. I was surprised he didn’t have an en suite to himself, but maybe only the main bedroom has one; I wouldn’t know. I’d never been in one of these big townhouses before.

  The pull towards him was so strong, I could feel my heart beating, pushing me forward; it was like a harsh pain within me, but one I never wanted to go away. It took all my effort not to run right then from the room over to his bedroom. Of course, I didn’t do that. Instead I stood very still and, in order to calm myself down, I turned and faced the top of the chest of drawers I was leaning against. On its surface was an iPad in a smart dark leather case. I could tell from the small logo in the corner it was Louis Vuitton. It probably cost the same as my whole month’s wages at the garden centre. Next to it was a Jo Malone candle, which explained the scent in the room. And next to that was a framed photo. It wasn’t dissimilar to the one I saw on Instagram, just weeks previously, although the boy’s face in it was a lot younger. It was of Charlie, Matthew, and Titus, with the latter probably around seven or eight, in school uniform, holding up a certificate of some kind. I reached out and touched the photo, then pulled my hand back quickly, worried I’d leave a mark.

  There was another frame next to it, smaller than the other, this one a photograph of a teenage girl, laughing at the camera, a Christmas tree behind her. I didn’t linger on this one. Instead, I turned my attention back to the photo of the happy, smiling family. And that’s when I heard the voice from the doorway.

  ‘Er … hi.’

  I tried to iron out the awkwardness as best I could. I tried to be embarrassed and apologetic, saying I’d gone into the wrong room. But I saw a frown crease Charlie’s brow that worried me. And it continued to worry me, all the way through the last part of the evening, and on my way home to my dark, lonely flat.

  Patience, I tried to tell myself. Keep things slow. Choose your moment. Everything will work out in the end.

  Chapter Ten

  Charlie

  Ten months before

  Looking back at when I had my initial reservations about Rachel, it’s hard to admit that some of them – if not all of them – were based on snobbery. But they were. Not because she wasn’t as financially comfortable as we were, or had a different accent or any of that. It was because she just wasn’t part of our club. Our little network, where everyone seems to know everybody, or acts as if they do. Of course, we meet new people all the time, but not in the aisles of supermarkets. And you certainly don’t expect a seemingly chance encounter like that to play such a big part in one’s life.

  I was having a tedious day in the office one unusually sunny October afternoon when things stepped up a gear with Rachel. A simple phone call was all it took to turn the day on its head.

  ‘Hi, it’s me,’ Titus said at the end of the line, even though I’d seen it was him from the caller ID. ‘So … this is a bit weird, but I’m at the police station. Something’s happened.’

  I dropped both
the project folder and iPad I was holding. Crouching down to pick them up, as Juliette turned back to look at me and asked, ‘You all right?’, I nestled the phone against my neck. ‘What’s happened? What police station?’

  ‘Kensington. I … I was sort-of mugged. A gang of boys. It happened near the Albert Hall.’

  ‘Christ,’ I said, ignoring Juliette’s panicked look and walking away from the printers and into my office. I closed the door and reached for my jacket. ‘I’ll come right away. Is your dad already en route?’

  ‘I couldn’t get hold of him. I phoned but it rang and rang, so I left him a voicemail. And I’ve sent him a WhatsApp, but he’s not read it.’

  This was odd. Matthew was sometimes off on work trips to see professors and historians who often lived in secluded parts of the country, and of course sometimes that came with a lack of signal, but as far as I knew, today was just a general office day.

  ‘Right. Not a problem. I’m on my way.’

  He said, ‘OK’ then hung up. I stuffed my folder and iPad into my bag, then headed out of the building via the lifts. I tried Matthew’s phone but just got his voicemail. As I walked towards the underground garage, I felt a strong sense of irritation towards him. The very time when there was an emergency and Titus needed us both, he was impossible to reach. I got into my car and punched out a blunt message:

  Titus at Kensington Police Station. He’s been attacked. Getting him now. Please call me.

  I started the engine and drove out of the car park. The streets were jam-packed as ever, and it took me nearly ten minutes to get out of Fitzrovia alone. Images of Titus being held against a wall and punched by a gang of hoodies, all of them cheering as blood splattered across his face and his possessions were snatched from his person, flashed across my mind. I felt the frustration I’d aimed towards Matthew now twist into a fiery rage at Titus’s attackers. How dare they mess with our boy?