Road Ends (38 page)

“How are you?” Tom said. “How’re things?”

“Is it Mum?” Megan said, seeing her mother dead, herself not there with her at the end.

“What?” Tom said. “Oh. No, Mum’s fine. At least, not exactly fine, but she’s not sick.”

“What’s the matter with her?”

“I don’t really know. Maybe nothing …”

Megan’s hands were shaking. “Tom, what is this phone call about?”

“Well, I guess it’s mainly about Adam.”

Her heart seemed to stop beating altogether. “Is he sick?”

“No, but things haven’t been great here lately, Meg. Mum’s kind of … lost it. Nothing’s getting done.”

“She’s always like that after a baby. Tell me about Adam. List every single thing that is wrong with Adam, starting now.”

“Okay. Well, for a start, sometimes there isn’t any food in the house and I think a couple of times he’s actually gone hungry. And also, he’s started wetting his bed and nobody’s done anything about it, so he’s been sleeping in a wet bed for weeks and he really stinks. And Mum’s completely wrapped up in the new baby and Dad’s at work and even when he’s home he’s not at home—you know how he is. And I’m at work, so Adam’s on his own a lot and he’s … unhappy, I think. He seems kind of … lost. So basically that’s the state of things. I thought you’d want to know.”

Megan was so angry her jaws were locked. The phone line hummed back and forth across the Atlantic.

“Meg? You there?”

She drew a breath. “You thought I’d want to know that Adam’s been hungry because there isn’t any food in the house and he’s been sleeping in a wet bed for weeks?”

“Megan—”

“There are three adults in that house, Tom!
Three adults
! And you’ve phoned to tell me that none of them can be bothered to see to the
basic needs
of one four-year-old boy!”

“Stop yelling at me, Meg. I’ve been doing my best, but I’m going to be leaving in a few weeks’ time. I just called to tell you that things really aren’t good here. Mum’s genuinely kind of nuts, and Dad doesn’t want to know. We even had the cops here the other night—well, Sergeant Moynihan—because it turns out Peter and Corey have been setting fire to things. The cleaning lady hasn’t been in months and Mum got someone else to come who was completely crap and I’ve just thrown her out. Like, literally thrown her out. I’ve also had to throw out the mattress on Adam’s bed because it was saturated with piss—all the sheets and blankets, everything’s soaked. So I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you, but I thought you’d want to know. In fact, I thought you’d be extremely upset if nobody told you. That’s why I phoned.”

The phone line hummed.

“Megan?”

“Where’s Dad in all this?” Her hands were still shaking.

“In his study. Where else?”

“It’s his responsibility.”

“Maybe you could phone and tell him that. I’ve tried.”

“You want me to come home—three thousand miles—and sort it out. That’s why you phoned, isn’t it?”

“No, it isn’t, I—”

“Yes, it is.”

“Look, obviously it would be great if you came home, Meg, even if you just came for a week or two, but I don’t expect you to do it. Why should you? You did it for years, and now you’ve got your own life to live. Adam will survive. I’ll get in lots of biscuits and stuff before I leave—stuff he can open by himself. But I’ve been wondering about this bed-wetting business. Can kids put on their own diapers? ’Cause that’s going to be a tricky one.”

“I’m going to kill him,” Megan said. “It would be worth going home just to kill him.”

Annabelle said, “Megan, we can manage here, you know. Janet’s very capable. Why don’t you go for a week or two?”

“There are three adults in that house. There isn’t a single thing I could do that they couldn’t do just as easily. I am not going.”

“He’s trying to blackmail me,” she said to Andrew. “He’s trying to make me so worried about Adam that I’ll have to go home.”

“I get the feeling he’s succeeding,” Andrew said.

“No, he isn’t. He is not.”

“That’s okay, then,” Andrew said. “Anyway, I thought you said he said he didn’t expect you to come.”

“That’s because he’s smart. Tom is very smart.”

“You could go just for a week or two. For your own peace of mind.”

“It wouldn’t give me peace of mind because I’d see how
useless
they all are and I’d never be able to leave.”

“Buy a return ticket. Tell them from the outset that you aren’t staying. Go for two weeks, sort things out and then come back … Megan, are you crying?”

He got up and came around the table and put his arms around her, the first time he had ever done such a thing, and she was too upset to savour it.

“I’m just so mad,” she said between sobs. “The idea of Adam sleeping for
weeks
in a soaking wet bed. And being actually
hungry
. I’m just so
furious
with them all.”

“I’ll meet you at the airport when you get back,” Andrew said. “You can come home and have a nap and then in the evening we’ll go out for dinner and you can rage about them to your heart’s content.”

“I’m not going,” Megan said. “I am
not
going.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Struan, March 1969

I’ve just had a visit from Reverend Thomas. I was on my way upstairs to bed—the rest of the household had retired long ago—when there was a knock at the door. Needless to say I was reminded of his non-visit a couple of weeks ago and sure enough when I opened the door there he was in his big black coat, looking so ill I thought he might collapse on the doorstep.

Before I had time to open my mouth he said, “I’m sorry to trouble you, Edward. I know you don’t relish my company but I’m afraid I must talk with you.”

I invited him in, of course. I took his hat and coat and hung them up and led him through to my study. When we were seated I asked what I could do for him. He didn’t reply for a moment; just sat, looking vaguely at my desk. It crossed my mind that he might have had a turn of some kind, a small stroke perhaps, and I wondered if I should call John Christopherson. But then he pulled himself together.

“I won’t keep you long,” he said, finally raising his eyes to mine. “There are only two things I need to say. The first is an
apology. Some years ago you and I had a disagreement about Joel Pickett. I expect you remember.”

I nodded. There was no danger of my forgetting.

“Subsequently I used my position—my pulpit, you might say—” there was a trace of that smile I dislike so much—“to … vent my anger against you. What I implied about you was untrue and did you damage. It was wrong of me and I am sorry. I hope you will accept my apology.”

That was something I had never expected to hear. Given the man’s overwhelming pride and arrogance, it must have cost him a great deal to say those words.

“Thank you,” I said. “I do accept it.”

He nodded, and then looked away again and sat for a bit studying the titles of the books in the bookcase behind me. I imagine his home is full of books too. In another life Reverend Thomas and I might have found we had something in common.

“The second thing is harder to say,” he said finally. “Harder to tell. I need to make a confession and I have decided that you are the right person to confess to.”

That startled me, I have to say—I would have thought I’d be the very last person he would want to confess anything to—but he certainly had my attention.

He drew his gaze back from the books. “You remember my son, Robert’s, trial.”

“Yes.”

“You remember he was given a very light sentence. The sentence, as I’m sure you know, is decided by the Crown attorney. In Robert’s case, a term in jail was expected, but instead he got off with three months’ service to the community.”

I nodded. The sentence had been particularly surprising because the current Crown attorney is known to be very tough on the drink and drive issue, particularly where young men are concerned.

“He is a friend of mine,” Reverend Thomas said. “The Crown attorney, Gilbert Mitchell. We have been friends since university. Several weeks before the trial I went down to North Bay to see him. I told him Robert had suffered enormously for his crime already, which was true. I said that he was a sensitive boy, which was also true, and that he would be utterly crushed by a period in jail, that he would be destroyed by it. Which was not true. Robert was desperate to atone, he would have positively welcomed a prison sentence. I knew that. The truth is …”

His voice was shaking and he stopped. He swallowed, the sound of it painfully loud in the silence of the room. I couldn’t look at him. I focused on a splatter of ink on the blotter on my desk. I was so alarmed by the thought that he might break down in front of me that I found I was holding my breath. I could hear his breathing shuddering with the effort of control, and I willed him to achieve it. Gradually, he did.

“The truth is,” he said finally, his voice steadier but harsh with the effort of forcing out the words, “I could not stand the idea of a child of mine going to jail. The idea of everybody knowing that my son was in jail.

“So justice was not done and the child’s mother could not bear it and said things to Robert that he could not live with. And he killed himself. But the truth is, I killed him. For the sake of my pride.”

He stopped again. I think he expected me to say something, but I was so shocked, so appalled, I couldn’t speak. After a moment he carried on.

“It has destroyed my wife and I know it has harmed your son as well, Edward. I don’t know if he has been blaming himself in any way, but I want to be sure he knows that he could not have prevented Robert’s suicide. No one could have. I would be grateful if you would tell him that and apologize to him on my behalf. I would do it myself but I think he might find that … painful,
and I don’t want to add to his burden. Whereas you would know how to put it.”

I have to say I felt the most profound admiration for him at that moment. I couldn’t imagine how he had managed to say what he had just said, how he had brought himself to come here. That previous night when he had come to the door, it must have been to say this. He had knocked and waited, but I had delayed so long in answering that his courage had failed him. I thought of the weight he must have been carrying for the past year and a half; it must have been like being crushed by rocks. It struck me as astonishing, in such circumstances, that he’d still been able to think of what Tom was going through and had come to try to put it right.

Finally I managed to look at him. “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you very much. I will tell Tom.”

He nodded but didn’t reply. After a minute, knowing that nothing I could say would make any difference but having to try, nonetheless, I said, “I’ve always understood that the Christian god is a forgiving god, Reverend. Surely if we’re supposed to forgive others, we’re also supposed to forgive ourselves.”

He looked away.

“God has been silent on the subject,” he said after a minute. “He has been silent on all subjects since the day Robert died.”

I imagined him, alone in his house, waking each day to the knowledge of what he had done, listening for some message—any message—from his god, hearing nothing but the howling of his own mind. Here is a strange thing: I found myself
loathing
his god for abandoning him at such a time. Hardly a rational thought for a non-believer.

We sat for some time, not speaking. Finally, with an effort, he got to his feet. I would have encouraged him to stay—I felt no resentment towards him anymore; what had happened between us years ago seemed utterly trivial now—but it was clear he had said what he had come to say and wanted to go.

As he was leaving, he held out his hand and I took it. He said, “Thank you for listening, Edward. I wanted you to know.”

When he’d gone I returned to my study. After a moment the floorboards creaked above me and then I heard someone coming downstairs and knew it would be Tom.

“Come in,” I said when he appeared in the doorway. “Sit down.”

“Was that Reverend Thomas?” he said.

“Yes, it was.”

He sat down. “What did he want?”