A Banquet of Consequences Page 2

  “I’m not intending to live with Mum. At least not permanently. It’s only till I can get established. It’s for the best.”

  “God, I can even hear her voice in you,” Lily fumed.

  “I’m thinking of Sherborne,” he said. “Or Somerset. Probably Yeovil because it’s less costly but the business itself will do better in Sherborne. There’s money there. Even Mum says—”

  “I don’t want to hear what ‘Mum’ says.”

  “It’s London, Lily. It’s attempting to have any kind of business in London.”

  “I have a business. It’s working out.”

  “Tattoos, yes. Well, this is London after all. But what I’m trying to do . . . having my kind of business, what I’m good at, here . . . People don’t connect the way I need to connect in London. You’ve said that yourself: the perfect place to be anonymous, but if one wants anything more than anonymity, it’s not going to happen. I’ve heard you say that. It’s no go for me here. It’s only because of you I’ve hacked it for this long.”

  She looked towards the bar. She thought uselessly about how trendy Spitalfields was becoming as the City of London inched towards it one hideous glass tower block at a time. Even here—God, not that far from where Jack the Ripper haunted the narrow Whitechapel streets—there were young women wearing pencil skirts and young men in suits flirting with one another as they sipped white wine. White wine, for God’s sake. Here. In the East End. They were only a sign that nothing ever stayed the same, that progress was relentless and that “making progress” applied not only to society and economics and science and everything else but to people as well. She hated that: the very idea of constant change to which one had to become accustomed. But she also knew when fighting it was hopeless.

  She said to him, “I suppose that’s it, isn’t it?”

  “What’s it?”

  “You and I. What else?”

  He reached for her hand across the table. His palm was damp where it covered her balled fist. He said, “You can come to Dorset as well. You can set up a shop there. I’ve already spoken to—”

  “Yes. Right. To your mum. And she’s assured you that there’s plenty of scope for tattoos in a place like Dorset.”

  “Well . . . yes, if it comes to that. You’re reading her wrong, Lil. She wants you there as much as I do.”

  14 DECEMBER

  SPITALFIELDS

  LONDON

  Will hadn’t expected that Lily would be the first to move out of the flat. He’d more or less depended upon her to remain there—a constant presence in his life till he himself had packed up and departed. But two days later she was gone and this left him four days on his own till his mother and stepfather showed up with the bakery van to cart back to Dorset those of his belongings that didn’t fit into the Fiesta.

  Four days on his own put him where he didn’t want to be and that was with his head as his only companion. Inside his head resided voices. They informed him of what he already knew: He’d wrecked his chances for a life with Lily; he’d proved once again what a loser he was; he’d been a wanking weirdo from the day of his birth and a look in the mirror’ll show you that, Will. Which was what he did, of course. He walked into the bathroom and looked in the mirror and saw those things he hated about himself. His laughable height. What are you, a dwarf? A deformed right ear. Your dad’s a plastic surgeon and he wouldn’t even bloody operate on you? Thick eyebrows forming a peak over his eyes. Got a gorilla in your makeup, laddie? Cupid lips that looked like something off a doll.

  You are one arse-ugly bloke, my man. She didn’t see past it. She couldn’t. Who could? Gave her an out, and she took it, mate, and who can blame her? How long you think it took her, boy-o, to spread ’em wide for someone else? And someone who can do it the way it’s meant to be done. No excuses, no pills, no fast and furious and Sorry but you just get me going, woman. The real thing instead, which is what—let’s face it—you were never up to.

  He rang his gran. He meant it to distract himself from what was going on in his head. But when he told her he was returning to Dorset, she said, “Don’t be a fool, Guillermo,” in her harsh, smoker’s Colombian voice. “This plan of yours. You make a mistake. You talk to Carlos about this, sí? He tell you the same.”

  But there was no point to talking to Charlie. Will’s brother had a magical life, the polar opposite of Will’s in every way.

  “Dorset?” he would say. “Fuck it, Will. Don’t go to Dorset. You’re seeing her as the solution, you idiot, when she’s been your problem for twenty-five years.”

  Charlie wouldn’t believe what their grandmother didn’t believe what Lily couldn’t believe and that was the impermanency of this arrangement. Caroline Goldacre didn’t want her son home indefinitely any more than her son wanted it. She herself had said, “We’re calling this a temporary arrangement, Will. You do understand that, don’t you?” and she hadn’t allowed any plans to be made until he agreed: a few weeks to sort himself out and get reestablished somewhere. Sherborne, he thought. It would have to be Sherborne.

  She told him he would have to wait in London till she and his stepfather could get away. The bakery didn’t operate on Sundays, so they would drive up to London on Sunday. He’d be fine till then, wouldn’t he? He said he would. But then Lily left.

  His mind had started roiling shortly thereafter and the voices in his head were unrelenting. After twenty-four hours, he rang his mum and said, Couldn’t he come down in advance of Sunday? He’d bring some of his gear in the Fiesta and then on Sunday they could all return and pick up the rest.

  “Darling, don’t be silly,” his mother replied kindly. “Surely you can survive till Sunday. Can’t you?” And then carefully, “Will, you are taking your medications properly, aren’t you?”

  He said that he was. He didn’t tell her that Lily had left. He didn’t want her to associate the two: his meds and Lily. There was no point.

  Four days stretched out like the creation of toffee. There was nothing to distract him from who he was. By the day on which his mother arrived, Will had taken to pacing the floor and hitting himself lightly on the forehead. When the hour of her appearance began its slow approach, he started waiting at the window like an abandoned dog.

  Thus he saw the bakery van cruising into the street. He saw his mother get out, as usual, to direct his stepfather into a parking spot. She waved her arms and strode to the driver’s window to have a word. More arm waving ensued until poor old Alastair had managed to dock the vehicle without crashing it into another.

  Will felt the bad rising within him as he watched. He tried to quell it. But his eyes began their double blinking, and deep within him from a place he could not manage to harness, the words bubbled up. “Cocksucking storm troop here it is.” He locked his hand over his mouth as his eyelids danced. “Fucker fucker fucker bastard rain ice.” He backed off from the window and tried to strangle them off. But still they came forth like the foul effluent emerging from a broken sewage pipe. “Whore slag whoreson slough off pantering.”

  The doorbell rang. He stumbled to the buzzer and released the lock to allow them to ring for the lift. He slapped himself hard and could feel no pain. “Fuck all merry men Robin Hood heap.”

  He swung the door open but retreated across the room. He raised his wrist to his teeth and he bit down hard.

  He heard their voices coming his way, his mother’s soft and Alastair’s gruff. He heard her say, “It’ll work out well,” and then they were coming into his flat.

  She spoke first, a reference to his ringing them into the lift without a query as to who they were. “Will, love,” she said, “you really ought not to do that without seeing who’s there. It could be anyone, and in this part of town . . .” Her words sank into silence as she took him in.

  He was triple blinking. He clutched his stomach to try to hold back what came out like a scourge intended for her alone. “H
ot cunt cold cunt doggy meat pork.”

  She didn’t react other than to say, “Oh my dear.” Quickly, she came across the room to him. She took him into her arms. He clung to her, but the words continued to pour from within him, so he broke away and went to the wall. There he began to bang his head, but still they came on.

  He heard his mother say, “Darling, it’s only a seizure. It’s only words. You’re quite fine behind them. But you must try—”

  He laughed insanely. “Bitch cock Broadmoor.”

  “Not a bad idea,” he heard Alastair mutter.

  “Let me handle this, Alastair,” his mother said sharply. “If you could just begin to gather his things . . . ? Perhaps take them out to the van . . . ?”

  “Where’s his gear, then?” Alastair said. “Will, lad. Have you not packed? Did you not remember that your mum and I were coming?”

  “Obviously, he hasn’t been able . . . You’ll have to . . . No. We’ll just take some of his clothing for now and Lily can send the rest afterwards. I’ll write her a note. God knows why she’s not here. Will, where’s Lily?”

  “Lily cunt cock fuck the troubadour sings.”

  The words were louder now. He pounded his fist on the wall. He felt his mother’s hand close over his arm and try to draw him into the middle of the room, but he jerked away and made for the kitchen because if nothing else a knife was there and he could cut out his tongue or do something to pain himself deeply, for it seemed that only deeply felt pain was going to make the Wording cease.

  “Stop this, William!” his mother cried. He heard her come after him. He felt her arms come round him. “Please.”

  “Caro,” Alastair said from the sitting room, “p’rhaps the lad doesn’t want to go.”

  “He has to,” she replied. “Look at the state of him. Will, listen to me. D’you want me to ring for an ambulance? Do you want to be taken to hospital? Elsewhere? I believe you don’t want that, so you must sort yourself out at once.”

  “I could ring Lily’s mobile,” Alastair said. “I could ask her to come. Isn’t her shop nearby? Would she be working today?”

  “Don’t be foolish. It’s Sunday. Look around. She’s left. And Lily’s the problem, not the solution. Just listen to him. You can hear it yourself.”

  “But the words don’t mean—”

  “They mean what they mean.”

  Will tore himself from his mother’s grasp and clutched at his skull. “Forks knives and spoons because rainfall torrent of floor to fuck. And you too both of you fucking like goats so I can shag is what shag shag shag ’cause that’s how she wants it like Jesus and Mary did to each other ’cause what else was he doing for those first thirty years?”

  “Holy God,” Alastair said.

  “That’s enough, William.” Caroline turned him to her and he knew that he was quadruple blinking because he could barely see her. She said, “You must stop this at once. If you aren’t able, I’m going to have to ring nine-nine-nine and they’ll take you God only knows where and you don’t want that. Where are your medicines? Are they packed? Did you pack them? Will, answer me. Now.”

  “And when he did from the cross and the fucking cow bitch put the bastard in a bun.”

  Caroline said, “This is no good. Alastair, will you wait below?”

  “I hate to leave you, luv.”

  “It’s all right. You know I can handle him if it comes down to it. He won’t hurt me. He just needs to get calm.”

  “If you think . . .”

  “I do.”

  “Right, then. Ring me on my mobile. I’ll be below.” The door closed as Alastair left the flat.

  Then, “Enough!” Caroline said sharply. “I said enough. Do you hear me, Will? You’re acting like a two-year-old, and I won’t have it. How did you let yourself get into this state when you know very well what to do to control it? God in heaven, can you not manage five minutes on your own?”

  “Cunt in a bottle.”

  She shook him hard, a teeth rattling shake. She swung him round to face the sitting room. “Get out of my sight,” she snapped. “Get yourself in order, and do it now. You know what it takes, so do it. And do not make me tell you more than once.”

  SPITALFIELDS

  LONDON

  Outside, Alastair MacKerron went directly to the bakery van. He was shaken more than usual by what was going on with Will. This was the worst he’d ever seen.

  He’d had high hopes at first when Will had taken himself off to London. He’d found himself a girlfriend—bit edgy with all her piercings and those mad tattoos, but what did it matter at the end of the day?—and he’d managed to establish a business that did fairly well for a bit. He’d even made contact with his gran, and if he’d ignored his mum’s advice to keep well clear of his dad and his dad’s infant bride, what did that really matter either? He was setting off on his own at last, and the occasional upset surely wouldn’t be enough to take him down. At least that was what Alastair had believed.

  “Let him spread his wings, Caro” had been Alastair’s advice. “You can’t keep coddling the lad forever.”

  Caroline didn’t see it as coddling, of course. She saw it as being a proper mum. For being that to her boys was paramount to her, and she’d made this very clear to Alastair from the moment he’d realised—much to his chagrin—that he’d fallen hard for a married woman.

  He’d felt lucky to have her for quite some time. From the moment he’d seen her at that Christmas panto, sipping a virtuous orange juice at the interval and observing, bright-eyed and smiling, the gaily garbed families surging through the bar and lined up for ice cream and purchasing souvenir programmes right and left, he’d wanted to know her. He’d been there with five of his nieces and nephews and she’d claimed the same: two nephews who were running about somewhere making trouble, no doubt, was how she put it. That the “nephews” turned out to be her sons was something she admitted to only much later.

  “I didn’t know what you’d think,” she’d told him.

  What she’d meant was that she didn’t know what he’d think if she’d revealed she was married. Unhappily so. Tied to a man who lacked sufficient interest in the act to bed her more than once each season. But married all the same.

  He wouldn’t have thought a thing, he told her. Only that she was slim and gorgeous with mounds of dark hair and staggeringly beautiful bosoms and great dark eyes and lips so full that he lost his breath merely looking upon her. And part of the breathlessness he felt took root in the fact that she actually wished to talk with him, him a toad to her fairy princess, short and plain and thin of hair, bespectacled, and not ever what he’d dreamed to be: SAS man, a killing machine, decorated soldier and all the rest. A chance of fate had taken care of that, a badly set leg in childhood rendering him a limping, halting lump of a thing with one built-up shoe and no hope of the military life that would have made him the man he’d known he could be.

  They’d talked happily that night at the panto: the coming holiday, the importance of family at Christmas, his parents in Scotland, her mum in London, what they would do, whom they would see. She’d revealed very little; he’d revealed much. Later, when the bell sounded to call the audience back to their seats, he’d slipped her his card and said shyly that if she ever wished to meet for a drink or a coffee or if she would like to see his business . . .

  “What sort of business?” was what she asked.

  “Repurposing,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You must see.”

  He’d hardly expected anything to come of their meeting, but she turned up at his shop in Whitecross Street not two weeks later. There he sold what he made of what he’d found in car boot sales, estate sales, junk shops, and tips. Huge factory gears fashioned into tables; polo mallets made into lamps; metal garden chairs on which a decent coat of varnish formed a protective patina over an ar
tistic display of rust and chipped paint; other people’s lumber given new life.

  She’d been charmed by it all because, truth to tell, he was very good at what he did, and she’d been filled with questions about how he decided what to make of what he found. He dipped a needy hand into her font of admiration. There were people in the shop, but he wanted to rid the place of them so that he could give Caro his full attention. He stammered and blushed and was determined to hide from her what his face was blazing: abject desire that could not be fulfilled.

  She’d stayed till closing. They’d gone for a drink. They’d spent three hours talking of this and that and all he could remember of that evening was his heart pounding so hard that his eyeballs were pulsing and his bollocks were aching with desire.

  At her car, she’d said how much she liked him, how he listened to her with interest, and how she felt completely safe with him. “Which is very odd, as I barely know you,” she said. “But I have a very good feeling about you and—”

  He kissed her before he could stop himself. Animal lust or whatever it was, he simply had to feel her in his arms. To his surprise, she welcomed the kiss with her lips parting and her body fitting closely to his and not a murmur of protest when his hands slid from her waist to her soft, full bosoms that rested heavily in his two palms.

  He felt he might actually black out with wanting her. He managed to get control of himself only because they were on a public street. He released her, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand over which he stared at this lovely creature and tried to think how to apologise, how to explain, how to go on with her as he wished to go on.

  She was the one to speak. “I shouldn’t have . . . I shouldn’t have . . .”

  “No. It was me. It was the drink and you looking so bloody gorgeous standing there and—”

  “It’s that I’m married,” she said in a rush. “The boys at the theatre with me . . . at the panto . . . They’re my sons. And I feel . . . What’s wrong with me that I would want to see you again when I have no right . . . And I wanted you to kiss me just now. I can’t explain it except to say how different you are from . . . Oh Lord, I must go. Really, I must go.”