The Boy in the Smoke (3 page)

Was this actually happening? Was his father threatening him, physically, here on the Eton parking grounds?

The eye-to-eye look, the stance  …  yes. This was happening. And it almost made Stephen laugh out loud. While his father probably made the occasional trip to the office gym, Stephen had spent every day of the last several years being roughed up on the rugby pitch, stuck in wall game scrums, and rowing for hours a day. He was stronger than his father now, undoubtedly much faster, and just a hair taller. He was not a fighter, but the simple nature of his sporting life meant he was used to taking and dealing with body blows, and it would hardly be a difficult matter to throw a punch that knocked his father flat to the ground.

“I’d really like to see you try,” Stephen said quietly. “It would make my year.”

This remark hit home. His father blinked. He hadn’t expected Stephen to react this way, and now he was reassessing the situation. Stephen pushed up his sleeves.

His father stepped back a bit and shook his head.

“
Your sister
wasted her entire life,” he said. “She was a destructive drug addict who got herself expelled from every school. She threw away every opportunity that was handed to her.”

“And how do you think she got that way?” Stephen asked.

“I suppose you’re going to try to tell me that it was somehow our fault, our fault for giving her
everything
.”

“Except attention. Except  … ”

He couldn’t say love. That was a step too far. But his father knew where the sentence was going and smirked.

“You were always the smart one, Stephen, except when it came to her. She had you exactly where she wanted you.”

“What does
that
mean?”

“It means your sister used you to defend her, just like she used us and used everyone around her. She could always play you  … ”

“She didn’t
play
me,” Stephen spat.

“Didn’t she?” Stephen’s father leaned against the door of the car opposite. “She told you everything, didn’t she? And you’re not stupid.
You
knew she was taking drugs, didn’t you?
You
knew she was in trouble.”

Everything seemed to go quiet. Stephen could feel his pulse heavy just behind his ear. The evidence had been circumstantial. That’s the term they would have used on a police show. The behaviour problems. The meeting in the diner, with the trip to the toilets and the large pupils. The way Gina spoke on the phone sometimes—far too quickly, jumping from subject to subject, or far too slowly, getting confused mid-sentence. He had never asked because he didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to know because Gina had to be okay, even when she wasn’t.

“Of course you did,” his father went on. “You knew, and what did you do about it?”

“I was fourteen—”

“—and the only person your sister listened to. What did you do about it, Stephen?”

The question rung through the air, deafening him, like a close-range gunshot. Everything became muffled and painful. Of course, Stephen had asked himself this question—what had he done? The answer was nothing. He had reassured himself on this point for three years, but now that his father had asked the question, the bandage was ripped off and the wound was revealed and was still bleeding. A beating would have been preferable. He would have let it happen.

“You did the smart thing,” his father said, in that casual tone that Stephen hated so very much. “You carried on. You looked after yourself and you did well. Now be smart and stop this nonsense and let’s get back. You’ve done well today. Let’s carry on.”

Stephen followed, numb. Beaten.

His mother had him pose with the other members of his eight for photographs, and the chatter started anew, and between his friends people started murmuring their plans for later. As the day wore on—one of those endless early summer days when the sun simply never sets—the crowds thinned and the cars began to depart.

Stephen felt nothing. He was vaguely aware that it was a bit cooler. He noticed that around him people were happy. He walked back to his house because his body knew the way. He accepted two glasses of warm champagne because someone put them in his hand. But he wasn’t there for any of it. Some part of him had simply switched off. Now that the Fourth of June had been done, the house was filled with music, and people wandering the halls in various stages of undress and shouting from room to room. Stephen remained as he was, in his boating uniform, flopped on his bed. He took out his phone and flicked through the photos of his sister—the ones he’d transferred onto two different phones, the ones he would never get rid of, even if they were blurry and repetitive. He had fifty-six photos of her on the phone, and he had looked at them a thousand times or more, night after night. The images were stained into his memory. These were the only fifty-six expressions in the world that meant anything.

And what did you do? Nothing
.

When it was time to continue the party at the old boathouse, Stephen followed along and had a few more glasses of champagne. The party wore on and spilled out of the boathouse on to the lawn behind. People started pushing one another into the river. And when he himself was pushed in, fully dressed and glass in hand—as he sank into the dark water and sprung back to the surface—he accepted it with a pretend laugh.

There was nothing inside of him. Gina was gone. Gone again. Gone more than she had ever been gone. Someone had torn the curtains down and revealed there was nothing beyond—nothing outside, nothing worth anything. The world without Gina was unbearable.

He released his glass and swam, pulling his clothes off in the water and emerging naked just to make the others laugh. It was what was expected. Stephen always did what was expected of him, and he hated himself for it. He jumped in again to recover his clothes, and put them back on, despite the fact that they were leaden with river water.

Just before dawn, as the last of the partiers returned to their houses, Stephen stayed behind and stared up at the fading stars.

He flipped through the pictures on his phone again for a while.

It would be sunrise soon. Another day—but for what? All that he had worked for was suddenly stripped of meaning. Gina, Gina, Gina  … 

Why had he been permitted to go on living without her? If there was any goodness in the world, he should have been allowed to drop dead on the spot when she died.

He could always make up for that now.

He was aware that he was exhausted, and maybe a little drunk, but the idea got in and expanded, filling his mind. It would be easy enough to do. There was plenty of rope in the boathouse, and the beams were high. All it would take was the courage to see it through. Do it quick while he still held his bottle.

He admitted himself to the boathouse and switched on the lights. It appeared to him now like the set of a play, not quite real, ready for the final act. He was dizzy, and his hands shook. Do it fast, do it fast. He tied a shoe to the end of a rope and used it as a weight to get it over the beam, then secured the end on the boat rack, testing a few times for the proper length. There was a leftover picnic chair outside that someone had swiped. He took this inside the boathouse and shut the doors. He looked up at his handiwork, as if this was one of the many projects he would be judged on. No points for a sloppy effort.

The act of mounting the chair and taking the rope was simply one of bluster, and then, with one final thought of Regina, he stepped up and kicked the back of the chair.

It was like lightning hit him.

He was hanging. Actually hanging.

And it was excruciating and his body was tingling and saying
no no no no no no
.

He was swallowed by an instant, unmistakable flood of panic and the certain knowledge that he’d made a mistake. His throat was being crushed, and there was a starburst of light and panic dancing before his eyes. The world was pulling him down and his head was pulling to the side. He grabbed for the rope, but the noose had slid and tightened. He tried to get his fingertips between his neck and the rope, but there was just no space. He dug in harder, clawing with his nails. His lower body jerked up at the knees

He did not want to do this. It had to stop. It had to.

Things started to go black, and while he wanted to fight, his body fought him and went heavier and limp and his fingers fumbled. And then  … 

He was standing. The pulling ceased.

The chair was there, under his feet. He almost fell off it in his scramble to balance on it, to stand long enough to rip the thing from his neck. He pulled the rope over his chin. The pain was intense, his neck bruised and battered and scraped all the way around. His whole body hurt from the weight and the strain and he shook so terribly he could barely keep upright. He jumped down, crashing almost immediately to his knees. The boathouse was throbbing and every vein in his body pulsed.

It had been stupid—more than stupid. Something more than stupid that existed outside the range of everything he understood. That idiotic thought from five minutes previously had almost cost him his life. He wanted to apologize to everyone who had ever died, and everyone who was alive. He wanted to apologize to the boats and the walls and the river and the rope. But all he could think to do was get down on the floor and rest on his back and breathe.

Breathing. Nothing was as good as breathing. How had he not noticed this?

“Are you all right?”

The voice was light, a little fearful, and coming from very nearby. Stephen pulled himself up to balance on his elbows, and found that there was a boy standing by his feet. It wasn’t someone he knew.

“Are you all right?” the stranger said again.

He seemed to be maybe  …  maybe sixteen or so? He wore a thick brown sweater and spongebag trousers—an odd mix of clothes. His hair was dark blonde, neatly clipped and slicked down to his head in a severe side parting.

“I  …  I don’t know  … ” Words were hard to find. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Oh god, his throat hurt.

“You don’t need to apologize to me,” the boy said.

“Did you  …  the chair  … ”

“Yes,” the boy said. “You seemed to want it.”

Stephen coughed a laugh at that, and the pain this caused in his throat almost made him throw up. What had he done to his throat? There was a terrible ache now just along his jawline, and he reached up and winced instantly. The rope had cut and dug and broken all the skin.

“Can you sit up?” the boy asked.

“I think…” Stephen pushed himself up a bit and managed to get his back from the ground. He leaned over his bent knees and took a few deep breaths to try to steady his head.

“I can’t believe I did that.” His voice was a creaky whisper. “I can’t believe I
actually did that
. How long  … ”

“Not terribly long. Less than ten seconds. You showed signs of regret at once.”

Less than ten seconds? It had felt so much longer. Stephen rubbed at his jawline again, and was again rewarded with a zinging pain. The boy came and leaned against the boats next to him.

“Do I know you?” Stephen asked.

“I’ve been in this boathouse before, but you never noticed me, I suppose.”

This was a confusing statement. Either this person was on the boats or he wasn’t—and while there were many rowers at Eton, Stephen had probably seen and met them all at one time or another.

“I don’t understand,” Stephen said. “What’s your name?”

“Peter.”

“I’m Stephen.”

“I know,” Peter said.

Stephen blinked. Everything was still throbbing. Why did this strange person already know his name?

“Does it hurt?” Peter asked.

“A bit.”

Stephen tested the skin again with the tips of his fingers. He didn’t have to see it to know the damage would be very hard to hide.

“That will turn into quite the ugly blossom,” Peter said. “But better a bruise than the alternative, eh?”

Stephen nodded. He wasn’t in the mood to say much at the moment. It hurt to speak. Peter seemed to understand and came to sit by him. He was silent for a while, just looking at Stephen, then at the floor. It occurred to Stephen that he might have freaked Peter out and that it would probably be appropriate to say something.

“I hope I didn’t  …  upset you.” It sounded idiotic once it came out.

“Oh, no!” Peter said, almost cheerfully. “I was just worried for you. What made you do it?”

“My sister,” he said. “She died. Three years ago.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. What happened?”

“She took an overdose.”

“Intentionally?”

“No. It was an accident.”

“If you don’t mind my asking  …  if it happened three years ago, why did you do this now?”

“I saw my family,” Stephen said. “And it  …  it didn’t go well.”

“Ah, yes. Families. I certainly know how that can feel. And then you end up doing something rash. It appeared like you had just decided to do it on the spur of the moment.”

So Peter had been watching the whole time? And did nothing to
stop
him? Had Stephen found someone preparing to hang himself, he would have either tried to talk him down, or tackled him, or yelled for help. Peter had done none of these things.

Also, Peter was odd-looking. Stephen couldn’t put his finger on what was so strange. The clothes and hair were very retro—but that wasn’t it. Maybe it was that he was so sickly pale, so calm, so  … 

Chipper.

There was something about Peter that didn’t make sense.

“What you don’t realize at the time is that you’re not seeing the full picture,” Peter went on. “You don’t think about the fact that things will change. Things
always
change.”

Stephen was just staring now, and Peter seemed to read his thoughts.

“You’re wondering how I know. I know how you felt because I did it myself. Not quite the same way. I threw myself in the river. And all because of Simmons.”

Stephen combed his brain for any Simmons he could think of but came up with nothing.

“Simmons? I don’t think I know a Simmons.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t know Simmons. You’d remember him. The most beautiful boy in all the school, an absolute dish. He sat next to me in Latin divs, and now I don’t know more than twenty words of Latin. All of it, gone. For three years I said nothing, because  …  obviously, one couldn’t. And one day, I really thought he knew. I was walking along the river, and he ran along to join me for no reason at all. The way he looked at me, the way he simply joined me  …  I thought he felt the same. And it was such a beautiful day, and no one was around, and there had been three years of longing. So, I kissed him. It did not go well. He turned and pushed me away and gave me a look that broke me into pieces. Then he ran off. It was all over. Everything. My life. He despised me, and he was going to tell, and nothing was worth living for, so I jumped into the river and let myself sink.”