Rhapsody on a Theme (25 page)

He played
Rhapsody on a Theme
and felt something sealing in the centre of his chest.

When, perhaps twenty minutes into the balm, Jayden’s arms wrapped around him from behind and damp hair rested on his shoulder, Darren closed his eyes entirely and let the music die away, his fingers stilling on the keys and the last shuddering chords fading under his shivering left hand.

Here, he was home.

Sunday had been lined up to be
quiet
. Darren liked quiet. Work had been hectic lately (everyone who was anyone was stabbing people these days, it seemed) and now that he was finally feeling
normal
instead of drifting inside his own skin, he wanted some bloody quiet. Just a break from it all. And it started off fine—sleeping in until half ten, getting a fry-up and a rare coffee with his pill, settling on the sofa with Rachel’s purring cat and watching TV while Jayden finished off something for work. They sat in silence—between them, anyway—but a comfortable one.

It probably would have been a good morning, if not for…well. The doorbell at noon, and Jayden—in the middle of getting ready to go food shopping by then—calling for Darren to get it, and Darren opening it and…

“Hello, Darren.”

Darren blinked, his brain not quite sure what to do with this. His visitor shuffled his feet, looking oddly uncertain—and oddly
short
, some part of Darren’s mind piped up spitefully—and he cleared his throat. “Uh. Father.”

“I was hoping you would join me for lunch,” Father said.

Darren frowned. “Er.”

“Darren, who is it?”

Darren didn’t know what to say—to Father or to Jayden. Father looked uncomfortable, which was unsurprising. Darren hadn’t seen him since…he turned it over in his head…Christ, since the divorce was finalised. Nearly two years ago now. He and Scott had gone to sit in on the final hearing, when custody of Misha was decided, and he’d seen Father briefly then. And that had been the last time. Hell, Darren wasn’t even aware Father knew where he lived.

Jayden appeared at his elbow and stopped dead. “Mr. Peace.” His voice was like a layer of frost forming on the doorframe. His fingers touched Darren’s elbow very lightly, and he was suddenly radiating tension.

Father nodded at him, obviously unsure of his name—yet again—and Darren clutched at the spark of irritation. He was usually irritated with Father. That was normal, at least. “What are you doing here?” he asked finally.

“I would like to speak with you,” Father returned, calmly and oh-so-formally. “And I feel that such a discussion would be easiest in a neutral, public setting. Unfortunately I do not have your phone number, so…”

Jayden clutched Darren’s elbow harder, and Darren shook his head. “You go shopping,” he said quietly, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw that pale face crease in a frown. “Go on, it’s fine. I’ll text you where we go, you can come and join me later. Or after.”

Jayden’s hand around his elbow tightened, then he nodded. “All right,” he murmured lowly, sliding past Darren to leave. On the step, he twisted back for a light kiss, barely touching and entirely, Darren was sure, to make a point to Father. “Love you,” Jayden murmured and pressed another kiss to his cheek. “Call if you need me.”

Father shifted uncomfortably again, and Jayden glowered at him before turning on his heel and heading for the bus stop at the end of the street. Darren rolled his eyes fondly, the bitchy show of support shoring him up against whatever this was, before saying, “Come in, then. Let me grab my shoes and coat.”

Father stood awkwardly on the mat to wait and peered around their little ground floor with marginal curiosity. Darren left him to it: their house was rather nondescript, and even Father would struggle to find something snide to say—apart from possibly a comment on how small it was. Jayden was quite house-proud, and usually cleaned Saturday mornings before Darren got up, so this morning the place was already fairly pristine, cat aside. The only mark for Father to dislike, perhaps, was Jayden’s graduation photo on the wall, and that was hardly them necking on a flat surface.

“You, uh,” Father said awkwardly. “You’re still working with the police, then?”

He was eyeing Darren’s black work boots, and Darren nodded.

“Right,” Father said.

There was a short pause while Darren laced his shoes, and Father cleared his throat again.

“Er, enjoying it?”

“Come on,” Darren said, taking a moment of pity. Father had never really talked to him—not unless it was about why he wasn’t practising or studying hard enough—and the meagre attempts at small talk were painful at best. “Where did you have in mind?”

Father had brought his car—an Audi, which Darren grudgingly admired—and drove them to a quayside restaurant in Portsmouth with prices that Darren would never have paid himself. He asked for a Stella when Father asked, and that spiteful train of thought sparked up again with delighted glee at the slightly pained look he received and the awkward way that Father asked for it. Even the barman smirked, for an instant.

“So what did you want to talk about?” Darren asked, after they had settled at a table overlooking the murky quays, seagulls screaming at the boats bobbing in choppy water, and Father frowned into his glass of water.

“I suppose,” he said, “I want to talk about you.”

Darren raised his eyebrows. Father looked tired, he realised. Tired and old. He wasn’t that old, really, but he looked it, with lines drawn around his eyes and nose and a sagging mouth that had once been firm. He had lost weight (and hair) and something close to pity stirred in Darren’s gut for him. Mother had been ruthless, and Father had taken the divorce badly.

“I suppose your mo—Alison—told you about the circumstances of our, ah…”

“Divorce, yes.”

“…What did she…?”

“That she was moving on with another man,” Darren said carefully. She had actually outright said she was sleeping with someone else, but he rather thought saying that would be a mistake.

Father swallowed. “She requested it.”

“I know, Father, I attended the final hearing.”

“She, uh…she had grown tired of me, I suppose.”

“You mean she found somebody else,” Darren said flatly. Mother had a
modus operandi
. She stayed as long as the man was useful, or her best option. Scott’s father had been sacrificed to that, and now Darren’s. On the plus side, he supposed, Mother was likely too old now to have more children. She certainly lacked the inclination.

“Yes,” Father said slowly.

“What’s that got to do with me?” Darren prompted when nothing more was forthcoming.

“I suppose I always left communication with the children up to Alison,” Father said eventually. “When I moved out, I realised I had none of your details and would struggle to contact you.”

“You never contact me anyway,” Darren pointed out, and Father’s mouth tightened.

“And I…regret that.”

“It’s been two years since the hearing. Why now?”

“I have…been putting my life back in order.”

“That’s fair enough, but why show up now?”

“You
are
my son, Darren.”

“
Why are you here
?” Darren insisted. “It’s not like we’re close.”

“I…regret that as well.”

Darren frowned, eyeing that unfamiliar face. He didn’t look like his father—he was the spitting image of his mother, in fact—and once-a-year (at most) visits to the family home since he was eighteen had meant his father’s face had been largely abandoned. Forgotten, even. And two years had not been kind to Jeffrey Peace.

“With Michelle growing up—and remaining permanently with her mother—I suppose I have realised that I have two children and…very little relationship with either one of them. And that…doesn’t sit well with me.”

Darren sipped at his lager. “Yeah, well.”

“So, uh…” Father swallowed and shifted awkwardly. “You’re still with…”

Darren waited.

“…that…boy,” Father finished eventually.

“Well, I think when you can’t name your son’s boyfriend of seven years, that constitutes a bit of a lack of a relationship, yes,” Darren muttered.

“Darren. I am trying.”

“You’re trying for all of ten minutes, for the first time since I can remember,” Darren said tartly. “Forgive me if I’m not exactly blown away here.”

“There’s no need for sarcasm.”

“There’s every need,” Darren snapped. “When was I born?”

“I’m sorry?”

“When was I born?”

“For goodness’ sake, Darren, I know my son’s birthday.”

“What is it, then?”

Father paused, and Darren raised his eyebrows pointedly. Eventually, Father said, “All right, I take your point…”

“And where?”

“Where?”

“Yes, where?”

“…Gloucester,” Father said eventually.

“Wrong,” Darren said flatly. “That was Misha. When we were visiting Uncle Theo for Christmas because Mother couldn’t go skiing that year.” Uncle Theo, with the same crazy hair as Scott and Darren. Mother’s brother, long since dead. Some kind of accident. Very, very faintly, Darren could remember the funeral, but he’d only been ten and hadn’t known Uncle Theo very well, so the memory had been largely lost to not paying attention and a lack of any actual grief. He’d been more interested in the church organ than the eulogies.

Father’s face tightened.

“You might be trying right now, but there’s a lot of missing history to try and cover up,” Darren said flatly.

“Darren…”

Darren shrugged. He was mildly surprised to find that once, when he would have gotten angry, he was feeling somewhat indifferent. It was almost embarrassing, seeing this aging man whose life was crumbling. He wanted to walk away just to avoid the excruciating conversation, or lack thereof. But there was no anger anymore; the irritation was washed away by the drug and the distance, and the sense of failure or invisibility deadened by the sheer fact that…

That Darren was building a life of his own, and Father’s had sunk away.

“How did you get my address?”

Father paused. “Scott,” he said eventually, to Darren’s surprise. “I…may have implied I required your contact details for editing my will.” Lies, Darren suspected. He knew for a fact that he hadn’t been in Father’s will before the divorce. He’d been removed when he turned eighteen, because—in Father’s own words—there was no need to provide for him as a minor anymore. Privately, Darren had at the time suspected Father didn’t
want
to provide for his bisexual, uneducated son in the first place.

“…Right.”

“He, ah,” Father hesitated, then continued. “He suggested that I wait a little while before contacting you. That you have been…unwell lately.”

“Depression,” Darren said flatly.

Father stared, and Darren shifted back in his seat a little.

“Depression,” Father echoed.

“Yes. Fairly severe.”

“How severe?”

Darren raised his eyebrows. “Worse than I was at home as a kid, but I doubt you remember that either. About four or five months after Mother announced your divorce that Christmas, I tried to kill myself.” There was an odd sense of vindictive freedom about saying it, about putting it in such stark terms, and it was intensified when Father paled and flinched back. “Things were going badly with my boyfriend and I felt very intensely alone, and the depression all flared up again.”

“And…recently?”

Darren shrugged. “We’re trying drugs to treat it. The first and second trials knocked me about a bit.”

Father eyed him. “Are you…feeling better?”

“I suppose so,” Darren replied. “Although really, Scott shouldn’t have needed to tell you. I’ve had depression since I was about twelve.”

Father’s face tightened and he sighed heavily. “Darren, you must understand that your mother and I were not raised in families—or even times—which really recognised such illnesses, and…we were
concerned
about you, but we thought you would grow out of it. Teenagers are…moody.”

“Most teenagers don’t jump off the fourth floor of a car park,” Darren returned dryly. Father flinched, and Darren decided to be somewhat cruel. “You should have noticed, Father. Nobody
accidentally
jumps off that car park; you have to get over two concrete barriers and a fence.”

“Darren…”

“My counsellor attributes a lot of my depressive state to my upbringing. She says if I had received more support growing up, I wouldn’t struggle so much now.” Father flinched again and pursed his lips. “But that’s history,” Darren said finally. “The new medication is helping, and Jayden helps. More than you would ever understand.”

“So, ah…you
are
still with him?”

“Yes. Obviously.”

“I see,” Father said. Darren ordinarily would have bristled, but found himself largely uninterested. “You, uh. Alison and I were…surprised.”

“Really.”

“It had not occurred to us that you were, uh…”

“Father, for God’s sake, why are we discussing this? I was sixteen when you found out.” Technically fifteen, Darren supposed, but he wasn’t going to go splitting hairs with a partner in a law firm.

“Right,” Father said, in a wholly unconvinced manner, and Darren sighed heavily.

“Look, this is pointless,” he said. “We’re not getting anywhere. What do you want out of this?”

Father operated in business terms—even at home, which was the problem—and Darren knew the way his father worked enough to know that that was the only way to generate a useful response.

“I suppose,” Father said finally, “I regret the distance between us and I want to close it.”

“And this is
coincidentally
coming only after the divorce and your realisation that…what? You’re not scoring good family points at work anymore? You’re not being prioritised for time off?”

“The divorce merely opened my eyes, Darren. I realised that once your mother is gone—in any way—I have very little link to my children.”