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Catherine says nothing.

‘I understand there was an incident in the office today.’

Still she says nothing.

‘Simon has said that he doesn’t want to make a formal complaint. Nevertheless, we are obliged to record that you physically attacked him. It will have to go on your file, although, as I say, Simon isn’t pushing for any further action.’

‘I see.’ Catherine hears her mother stirring, the television going on again.

‘And there will have to be an investigation into the allegations made by a Mr Stephen Brigstocke. They are serious. I’m sure you understand that. Is there anything you’d like to say at this stage?’

‘No.’

‘Well. I’m going to sign you off work for a week – a week to start with, at least.’ She waits. ‘Catherine? Are you there?’

‘Yes, I’m here.’

‘I understand you’ve been under pressure. That you have felt under pressure with work—’

‘It’s not work – I haven’t been under pressure at work. I’ll take some leave—’

‘No, there’s no need for that. Save your leave – I’ll sign you off sick.’

HR-speak for
you’re a fucking nutcase.

‘I think we should talk again in a week, when you’ve had time to gather yourself. Then we can discuss next steps.’

Silence.

‘I wonder whether it might be helpful for you to talk to someone about managing your anger. I’m sure they could come up with some useful coping mechanisms. We could help with that – pay for counselling. Someone independent, of course, and confidential. How does that sound?’

‘Fine, that sounds fine.’ Catherine chokes on the words.

‘We could offer four sessions. After that, if you wanted to continue, you would have to meet the cost yourself … Catherine?’

‘Yes, yes. OK,’ is all she can manage.

The woman says her goodbyes and hangs up. Catherine lies back on the bed. It is out of control. Everything is out of her control, it is sweeping her away and she closes her eyes and gives in to it.

Summer 1993

It was eight o’clock by the time Nick was tucked up and asleep. She had fooled him into thinking it was dark by closing the shutters in his room, but from her window she could see it was still light outside – too early yet for the Spanish, only a few Northern Europeans in the bar opposite. Catherine wasn’t ready for bed. She put on a denim skirt and a vest and tied up her hair. She looked OK. Her skin had a light tan and she thought, what a waste, Robert not here to enjoy this peace with her. She took her book, cigarettes and key and went downstairs. The girl in reception promised she would keep an eye out in case Nicholas appeared, but Catherine knew he wouldn’t. Once asleep, he stayed asleep.

She sat at a table on the terrace bar overlooking the beach. A waiter brought her smoked almonds and fresh anchovies and she ordered a small carafe of white wine. She waited until it arrived before she lit her cigarette, inhaled with relish and realized that she was relaxed. Maybe it would be OK after all. She looked at the sea. Small waves licked at the sand. A few people were still on the beach: families, Spanish she guessed, and a smattering of couples waiting to watch the sun set. That was when she noticed him.

He had a beer and was smoking. He was wearing a T-shirt, pale green. He turned and looked at her and she was embarrassed that he’d caught her staring at him. Why was she staring at him? Because he stood out. Because he was the only one with his back to the sea, the only one not interested in watching the sun make an exhibition of itself. He was looking up towards the promenade and when he looked at Catherine she smiled, even though he hadn’t smiled at her. She wasn’t flirting, it was instinctive. She hadn’t wanted to appear unfriendly. She was on holiday. So she’d smiled. He didn’t return her smile, and that made him seem older. And it made her feel self-conscious, knowing that he knew she was alone.

She reached for the nuts, trying to look casual, carrying on reading, but her fingers dipped into the oily anchovies instead and she had to look up and find a napkin before smearing grease all over her book and the wine glass. And she saw he was still looking at her, then he raised his bottle of beer and almost smiled, but she pretended not to notice and wiped at her fingers with the napkin before stabbing at an anchovy with a cocktail stick. She checked the time. Eight forty-five; fifteen more minutes and she’d go up.

A flash of light caught her eye. A flash from his camera. A photo taken, but not of the beautiful salmon-coloured sun. The camera was pointing at her. She remembers being ashamed of her assumption that he’d taken a photograph of her. It was the promenade he wanted to capture, with the pink sun reflected on the buildings. And he was below her, so it would have been an odd angle to photograph her from. With his prominent zoom lens. An expensive camera for such a young man. She pulled her skirt down, trying to force it to reach her knees, and crossed her legs. It reminded her of a scene from a film, and she wondered whether to uncross them again, but thought better of it. What was the matter with her?

She remembers her discomfort. She wasn’t used to being out on her own any more. She wasn’t used to being looked at like that. She didn’t know how to be. And she didn’t know that the photograph he’d taken would find its way into her home years later and be thrown in her face by her husband. A triangle of lace and darkness, of hair and skin and shadows. All she knew at the time was the feeling his attention gave her. It made her nervous, and at the same time it excited her, she has to admit that. She felt excited. She forces herself to remember that, as she sat on the terrace with a glass of wine and an anchovy on a stick, she thought of being in bed alone later and touching herself, and that it would be that boy she would fantasize about. She punishes herself with that memory and how her thoughts of having sex with a stranger were interrupted by a phone call. It was her husband, the waiter said. He was on the phone in reception. She picked up her things, left her wine unfinished, and followed the waiter into the hotel.

While she was on the phone to Robert she saw him walk through the entrance of the hotel and her heart flipped in anxiety, not excitement. He walked through reception, right past her. She remembers wondering whether they would stop him, but they didn’t. He had an expensive camera round his neck. And he had a nice face. She turned away, concentrating on Robert, telling him she missed him. He told her he loved her, which he did back then. She loved him too. Does she still love him? She won’t think about that, not yet, she can’t. That’s not the point of this remembering. She remembers blowing a kiss into the receiver before putting it down. When she turned around she saw him sitting on a stool at the bar, looking directly at her, two drinks in front of him. His bag was on the next-door stool. Still looking at her, he removed it and put it on the floor. And then he smiled. Finally. Right at her.

‘When did you get home?’

Catherine opens her eyes and looks at her mother.

‘A little while ago.’

‘Did they let you out early?’ Her mother smiles and Catherine wonders for a moment whether she thinks she’s been let out early from school, but that can’t be. She’s not that far gone yet.

‘I finished what I needed to do.’

‘Have you got another of your headaches, love?’ Tears spring to Catherine’s eyes. Her mother knows and doesn’t know, but it doesn’t matter because she knows what Catherine needs. She needs to be cared for without being interrogated. She needs someone to trust that she isn’t a terrible human being without having to tell them – without having to explain anything.

39

Summer 2013

Nick had spent most of the afternoon up in his bedroom, smoking dope: half-day, he was going to say if his dad came home early, but he didn’t. It’s ten p.m. and he’s back up there, door shut, windows wide open. He rolls another spliff, lights up and leans out of the window. The spare room is directly above the kitchen, and when he looks down he can see his dad through the glass roof of the extension. He’s clearing up after supper and Nick knows he should be helping, but his dad didn’t stop him when he left the room. He leans back in case his dad looks up and sees him. Surely he can smell the smoke drifting down? Even if he could, Nick doubts he’d say anything. He won’t want to risk driving Nick away. It is not easy living with a parent, but at least he’s saving money. It was all he could do to stop himself screaming during supper when his dad kept asking him about work. Thank fuck for football, which got them through the rest of the meal.

He flops down on the bed, catching his reflection in the mirror on his way. He looks like death, all colour in his face washed out. He lays his laptop open on his chest and imagines the unearthly colour his skin must be with the light from the screen reflecting on it. A stoned sarcophagus of an unknown young man, arms holding his book of life. He announces his return to the world and is greeted with a torrent of hellos and welcome backs. Virtual strangers, virtual friends. He gets to them all in turn, pressing the flesh, gently wafting through their outstretched hands, desperate to touch him, eager for his attention. He graces them with his presence, glad to be back in the world of the living.

He hears his dad call goodnight and Nick echoes the word, but he might as well have barked like a dog: the sound is meaningless. He is mid-conversation and won’t be interrupted, his fingers chatting away, telling anyone who’s out there what he thinks, what he’s up to. And some of them try and tempt him out. Not far, only round the corner – a boarded-up heaven where they gather to hang out. A shit-hole of a place, but it’s fine once you shut your eyes. After a while, you don’t notice the smell. Not something you’d want to make a habit of – and he hasn’t. He’s only been a couple of times, creeping out of the house when his dad was asleep and making sure he was home in time for breakfast, beating his dad to the table, already dressed for work. Even though he was too tired to speak, his dad understood. Nick’s never been good in the mornings.

Not tonight though. Tonight he is content to stay at home. He has a message he has saved till last – a private message meant only for him, from a new friend. And for once the word has a ring of truth. He gives him his full attention – one to one, just the two of them. He’s only a kid and he looks up to Nick, hangs on his every word.

How you doing?
Nick asks, and the friend can’t wait to tell him everything he’s been up to since their last chat.

They have a lot in common. More than you’d think, given the age difference. Even a fucking book. He’s read the only book Nick’s picked up in years. Nick confessed he’d skipped to the end – hadn’t read the whole thing, but, you know what? He has now. Fingered through the recommended chapters: the sexy stuff. Bit tame, love: try some of this, and Nick’d sent him something hot – better than he’d read in a fucking book. Nick’s older, seen more of the world. Follow my lead – don’t go to university, fuck Bristol or Manchester – stay in Spain – the sun’s shining in Spain. He’s hungry for Nick’s advice and Nick has dished out plenty of it. Life’s too short to waste, he says. Like he can talk – but he does. Can’t stop himself, comes up with all sorts of things he’d never say out loud – never say to anyone else – and Jonathan hangs on every word that drips off Nick’s fingers and asks for more, wants to know about the girls Nick’s fucked and his business plans and the year he spent travelling round the States. Jonathan laps it all up and listens and learns.

40

Summer 2013

I know all about what’s going on at home: she’s moved out and he’s on his own with Dad, who’s not himself, poor man. My little delivery of books to her office seems to have unsettled things too. She is off sick, they told me when I phoned. They had no idea when she would be back. Hope it’s nothing serious, I said before I hung up.

My heart has become as hard as my toenails. There was a time when I might have felt something for that boy. Once I might have tried to help him. It’s touching how he’s opened up to me. My teaching days taught me to spot them a mile off: the boys with the black hole at their centre. They tried swaggering nonchalance to cover it up: pretending they didn’t care about anything, least of all the consequences of giving up on themselves. But I’m talking about adolescents. He’s not a boy, he’s twenty-five years old and however much he ‘bigs’ himself up to my nineteen-year-old self with his dismal little fantasies of travelling round America and whatnot, he can’t hide his shivering, shrinking soul from a man with my experience.

He is desperate. Desperate to talk late into the night. He has other friends, of course, but they’re as lost as he is. I’ve read their inane banter. And they don’t know him like I do. When I go offline, off he goes to meet them in the real world, his druggy little friends, and then back he comes the following night, tongue hanging out, slathering with anticipation of my arrival, waiting to impress me with his pathetic narcotic adventures. I think it’s time I started making him wait for me – just ten minutes or so, keep him keen.

It didn’t take long for him to respond to my initial request – it was the photograph of his mother that got his attention. I told him I’d found it hidden in my house. Told him it had her name on the back. Told him I’d tracked him down, and I think he liked that. I think it tickled him, the idea that someone had made the effort to seek him out. It was an innocent enough photo, his mother alone on a beach, but it’s given him food for thought. Let him ponder for a while whether we might be related. Did his mother have an affair? Did she have another child? Does he have a little half-brother? Could it be me? And there are more pictures to come, but he’s not yet ready for those – they will need a health warning. Not that he gave me one when he sent me that filth. Still, I managed to fake my boy’s appreciation well and Jonathan is such an innocent it wasn’t hard to pretend he had never seen anything like that before.

He thinks I hang on his every word, and I do in a way. Poor sod – dribbling out his sorry tales to a boy six years his junior who has been dead for nearly twenty years. He may have opened his heart to Jonathan, but it is me who has marched in: me with Nancy’s voice ringing in my ears, her book of words whispering to me – the source material. And with her at my side, it won’t take much to nudge this feeble specimen to the brink. All I need do is feed his darkness and lead him to a point of no return, then leave him there, teetering on the edge.