Tim got up and went to the drinks cabinet again. He refilled his glass, drained it, refilled it again. Was that his fourth, or fifth? He was nearly drunk. He brought a new bottle back with him and slouched heavily into his chair, groaning as he did so. His finger began ticking again. Tap, tap, tap.
Benjamin Tate tried to recall what had been written on his card. ‘I won’t read it,’ he had promised Pete, ‘I just want the address.’ But Pete hadn’t cared, and of course he’d read it. Depression, and something to do with his spine, something degenerative and chronic, and substance abuse. Had it just been alcohol?
Of course, all these delights had still been in front of him when they’d met first, half met. He had been just the slogger in the park then, and just the parent in the playground with sleep in his eye and a small child, his daughter – the death of a child, say her name – watching him from the foot of the slide with that churlish look on her face. How light she’d been. It was a marvel. And there they go now, hand in hand, with the early morning sun on them, disappearing together over the soft dew-covered verges. What had they talked about that day, that final day, on their way home? What do fathers and daughters ever talk about? They had so little time left.
‘I’ve never spoken of it,’ he said.
Why hadn’t he? It angered him that his parents had never discussed it, not once, not to him at least. They must have talked endlessly amongst themselves during those long nights when he was still in the hospital. Yet their reticence when he’d returned had been almost abnormal. He’d first assumed they were simply giving him space in which to recover, in all manner of ways, but the days went by, the weeks went by, and then one morning he awoke with the knowledge that, without anyone noticing, a point had been passed and it could no longer be broached even if they’d wanted to.
Tim was watching him with steady, inscrutable eyes. ‘That’s because it’s unspeakable,’ he said, ‘what you did.’ He sat forward in his chair. ‘I have an idea, why don’t you tell me why you’re really here tonight.’
Benjamin Tate’s pulse quickened. ‘Don’t you know?’
‘You tell me.’ He picked up Benjamin Tate’s full glass and plonked it back down clumsily on the table. ‘I said drink.’
Benjamin Tate stared at it. The lights were dancing in its gold liquid. How were they, when nothing else in the room was moving? ‘I don’t want to have a drink with you,’ he said. ‘That’s not what I want.’
‘What do you want then?’
‘I want what you owe me.’
‘What I owe you? What can I possibly owe you? I owe you nothing.’
‘Of course you do. You know what I did.’ He suddenly realised what had bothered him about the photos in the hallway. They were all of the child, exclusively of her. In none of them was there a trace of either parent.
‘Yes,’ Tim said. ‘And?’
‘And nothing. Isn’t that enough? Isn’t what I did enough?’
‘Enough for what?’
‘Enough to pay me back. To need to pay me back.’
Tim was grimacing now. No, not grimacing, it was a smile. He was twitching. A vein in his temple pulsed. That hand, still trembling. Nerves. But not made nervous by this. No. Made nervous by life, his life, all of life. ‘You need to tell me what happened,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘I want to know.’ He drained another glass, watching Benjamin Tate through the bottom as he did so. It bulged and distorted his eye. ‘Tell me. Come on. Only you know. Talk me through it.’
That vile devil who had barged in on them jumped up. The death of a child. It reared up to its full height and started doing an appalling jig. Benjamin Tate stared at it, unable to tear away his eyes.
‘I’m waiting,’ Tim said. ‘Don’t make me keep imagining it. You say I owe you. Well, that’s what you owe me.’
Benjamin Tate was shaking his head. No, no, no. He could not, would not go back there.
‘But you must,’ Tim said. He lifted the second bottle above his head, shook out the last drops onto his tongue. ‘You must. It was such a lovely day. It was such a lovely fucking day. Explain to me how it could have possibly happened. You’re in the car. You’re driving…’
It was happening in front of him, right in front of him. He was watching it happen and he was powerless to prevent it. It wasn’t a memory or a vision or something imagined. It was the actual thing, happening now, again, as it happened then. He knew this, for what else is the devil if not our deepest fears revealed? He saw the pushchair. He saw the bonnet. He saw the kerb and the small rubber wheel slipping off it. He saw her. She was there. She was there and then she wasn’t there. It happened again, and again. It would go on, into perpetuity. He couldn’t stand to look anymore. He put his head down.
‘It has to end,’ he said. The finish line doesn’t come to meet you. His hand against his thigh pressed hard until the sharp edge began to cut into his skin.
‘But it can’t end. I can’t let it end. If it ends she’s gone forever. I’m her father. Have you forgotten that?’
‘So, act like it.’
There was a wail then, a howl rather, it was animal. It shook the walls and made the windows rattle in their frames. Benjamin Tate looked up. Tim was standing above him. His hands were raised. The second bottle was in one of them. He bowed his head and waited. He thought again of his recurring dream, of the dark shape that was here now. It was huge and heavy and right on top of him. It would blot him out.
The bottle smashed near to his feet and then there was silence. He waited. He looked up again. Tim was seated. His eyes were closed. He looked so still he might have suddenly died.
‘Tim?’ he said. It was the first time he’d used his name. It sounded awful in his mouth. ‘Hello?’
Tim opened his eyes finally and stared at him. ‘It’s over. Get out.’
But it couldn’t be over. This was the moment. He’d dreamed it. Benjamin Tate reached under the waistband of his trousers and withdrew the knife. It was long, serrated, deadly sharp. There was already blood on the blade. Tim looked at it with vague alarm and then closed his eyes again.
‘I’m not sure you can handle two of us on your conscience, but so be it.’
‘No,’ Benjamin Tate said, ‘it’s for you. I brought it for you. It’s my knife, so you can say I came here with intent. Take it.’
Tim didn’t move.
‘Please,’ Benjamin Tate said. ‘Please. It’s my penance. Only you can do it.’
Tim leaned forward and took the knife. He sunk back into his chair. He looked groggily at his empty glass on the table, at the empty bottle at his feet and the smashed one in front of him. He craned his neck to look at the cabinet, at all the bottles lined up there. Too far. Too lazy. He sighed heavily, stared blindly into space. For a long time, he didn’t speak.
‘She used to sit on my lap,’ he eventually said, ‘in the mornings, when I couldn’t sleep. Somehow, she always knew when I woke up. She used to come downstairs with her hair sticking up and snuggle up in my lap.’ He shook his head. His hand moved as if she were there again and he was stroking her. ‘She was so small. Her whole body could fit on my legs. The way she looked at me sometimes then. Like she was taking care of me, not the other way around. I’m sure she knew. I don’t know how she did. But I’ve always been sure she knew what was coming.’
Benjamin Tate had sunk right back in his chair. He was only half listening. He was back on the roadside. The dark shape was receding from him. It was nearly out of sight and he’d been left behind. The fog was closing in again. He would be lost in it forever.
