The House We Grew Up In (32 page)

Instead she buried her head into the crook of Richard’s shoulder, his strong, unquestioning shoulder that smelled of right here and now, and thought herself, hard, back into the moment and away from the past.

Rory opened the email again and reread it. He didn’t know why he kept doing it; it was as though he was fiddling with the edges of a plaster that sat over a particularly revolting and infected wound. It almost didn’t make sense. The content seemed so far-fetched. This time last year he and his dad had been bonding in a tattoo studio. Now his dad was living with the mother of his child on a hippy commune. The email needed to be reread, just to see if it contained some missed word or phrase that would stop it sounding so unlikely. But no. There it was. In black and white. The love triangle from hell. Or, God, even worse, a love
square
if he included himself in the shape.

He saw them every day, men like his dad, old and tired and scared of the women at home, terrified of being like their friends, incapable of allowing themselves to be rejected. They came here, to the other side of the world, and they found women who made them feel as though it was OK to be a loser.

And now his dad was one of them.

Pitiful.

Did he honestly, truly believe that Kayleigh was interested in him for his mind? For his body? For his sexual prowess?

Rory shivered involuntarily.

Of course she wasn’t. She was with him to ensure her connection with Rory’s family. To maintain her connection with Rory.

He read the email one more time, and then he shut it down.

He’d first found out about his dad and Kayleigh a few months ago. Beth had emailed him. Sheepishly. She’d known since before it had even happened. But his dad hadn’t got in touch with him. He’d not heard from his father until now. And then it was in a joint email, addressed to all three of his children.

Rory shrugged to himself.

Whatever.

He didn’t care any more. He’d come so far unravelled from the few remaining bonds that had tied him to his family that, really, who cared. Who gave a shit? Who gave a shit about Meg and all her bloody children? Who gave a shit about his weird mum and her sick girlfriend? Who gave a shit about vacuous Beth and her boring new boyfriend? Who gave a shit about Kayleigh and her kid and his dad and who gave a shit who called who Dad or Granddad or whatever? Who gave a shit about any of it? Seriously.

Rory left the Internet café and pulled his phone out of his pocket. It was Owen.

‘Yeah.’

‘Mate, where are you?’

‘I’m on Moo 2. Just heading back.’

‘What the fuck are you doing there?’

‘Nothing, just sending some emails.’

‘Seriously, you need to get back here, like, right now. Right this fucking minute.’

Rory’s heart rate picked up and he started walking faster. ‘What? What’s going on?’

‘Just get here. And make sure there’s nobody following you.’

‘Oh, what?’ Rory spun round as he walked. He didn’t know what he was looking for but assumed he’d recognise a threat if he saw one.

‘Should I chuck it out, Owen? Should I dump it?’

But Owen had already hung up. Adrenalin blasted through him. He half walked, half ran, looking over his shoulder. It took him twenty minutes to get back to the club. By the time he burst through the doors and into the back room he was soaked with sweat. Owen sat behind his desk. A plug-in fan blew his paperwork about in front of him. He looked cool and collected. On the chairs in front of him sat two Thai men wearing short-sleeved shirts and trousers. As he entered the room they both turned and appraised him. Rory vaguely recognised one of them. Had seen him around.

‘This is the man,’ he heard Owen saying. ‘This is the man who brings the drugs into my bar. Please arrest him.’

Both men nodded and one of them stood up and turned Rory backwards against Owen’s desk while the other clipped a pair of handcuffs around his wrists. Hands rifled through his pockets, came out clutching little bags of pills and powder, the currency of his work.

‘Owen?’ Rory breathed out, looking up at his friend from where his head rested against the warm wood of his desk. ‘Mate?’

‘You’re not my mate, mate. You’re a drug dealer.’

Owen stood up and held the door open for the two policemen. Rory stared beseechingly at his friend over his shoulder, struggling against the pressure of the men’s hands against his body. ‘Seriously, Owen, what is this shit? What the fuck is going on, what are you doing?’ He was shouting now through a closed door. His heels were dragging against the floor of the club. Girls and customers were staring at him in horror. ‘Jesus! For fuck’s sake! Someone help me! Owen! Jesus!’

Somehow the two policemen had got him on to the pavement. They were shouting at him urgently in Thai, with occasional words of English. ‘Stop moving! Just come!’ A police van sat outside. Rory hadn’t even noticed it before. He was pushed into the back and the doors slammed shut behind him. He was on a hot metal floor. The van smelled of sweat and cigarettes. Then they were moving, slowly through the midday traffic. Rory closed his eyes and saw Owen’s face again. That cool, hard expression of professional disappointment. The satisfaction buried beneath it of having swerved a curve ball, dealt with a problem, sorted it.
Taken care of business
.

Rory let his face fall on to his chest. He’d almost believed that he was Owen’s friend. Voices in his head had told him time and time again, ‘
Don’t trust him. He’s only out for his own interests. He doesn’t care about you
.’ But he’d ignored the voices and fooled himself that he was the special one in Owen’s tightly controlled, sordid little world. He bashed his elbows together against his ribs, with frustration.

‘Fuck!’ he shouted to himself. He kicked the sides of the van with the soles of his feet. ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’

He breathed back the tears that threatened to fall. He kicked the side of the van again. And then he breathed out.
Fine
, he thought,
good. Here it is. The thing
. The thing that had been hanging over him ever since he’d left Kayleigh alone in Spain with an eight-month-old baby. The cartoon anvil above his head. Here it was. It had fallen on him.

Fine
, he thought again,
good
.

Molly looked shy when she saw her grandfather standing in the doorway of their hotel room. She’d been lying on her stomach on her bed, the remote control in her hand, pointed at the TV. She quickly brought herself up to a sitting position.

‘Hello, Molly.’

She nodded and said, ‘Hi,’ in a barely audible squeak.

‘Wow,’ said Colin, ‘you’re all grown up.’

Molly smiled tightly and looked beyond embarrassed. Meg had tried over the years not to discuss her father in front of the children, not to let her feelings and her opinions filter through to them, but it was impossible to protect them from everything, stuff got through by osmosis sometimes. And Molly was old enough now to feel the full horror of her grandfather living with his son’s ex. ‘It’s like one of those “True Life” stories in those trashy magazines at the dentist,’ she’d once said in horror.

Meg pulled out the dressing-table chair for her father and switched on the kettle. ‘Where are you going to stay?’ she asked.

Colin smiled, his gaze still on his oldest grandchild, his eyes full of regret. ‘Oh, gosh, at the house I would’ve thought. I mean, I don’t suppose this place would fit my budget somehow.’

‘No,’ said Meg, ‘probably not. What are you living off these days?’

‘Well, my pension, obviously. And Kayleigh makes a bob or two, running these courses, you know.’

‘What sort of courses?’

‘Oh, God, well, I’m not sure how to describe them, I mean, I suppose,
relationship
workshops.’ He smiled apologetically and Meg shuddered. It truly did not bear thinking about.

‘Well,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘If you want to stay at the house, you’ll have to sleep in Rhys’s room.’

Colin shrugged. ‘I thought as much. It’s fine. I’m cool with that.’

I’m cool with that
.

Jesus Christ, thought Meg, who was this man?

‘And you’ll need to eat out. There’s no kitchen to speak of. And no bath or shower. But the toilet on the landing is still usable.’

Colin nodded. ‘Good. Good,’ he said. ‘I’m pretty used to basic living these days.’

The kettle clicked off and Meg poured water into a posh glass teapot filled with fresh leaves. She opened a packet of handmade biscuits, tied with black ribbon, and dropped them on to a china plate. She tried not to ponder too long on the contrasts between herself and her father: the five-star boutique hotel with the £4.50 bag of shortbread, and the unfurnished bedroom of a dead son. The five-bedroom house in Tufnell Park with off-street parking and CCTV, and the shed on a dusty commune in southern Spain with a chemical toilet and a goat tethered to the gate (she imagined). Her pristine, laundered and pressed White Company top, and his crumpled, sun-bleached T-shirt.

Her father.

It hardly seemed possible.

She saw Molly eyeing him curiously, watching everything he did as though she would be writing a report later. She took a tiny bottle of organic milk from the mini-bar and poured it into a milk jug.

‘We’ve been to the coroners,’ she said. She gave Colin the breakdown, the dreadful details. ‘They’ll release the body tomorrow morning. So, we need to, you know …’

‘Plan a funeral.’

‘Yes.’ She stopped for a moment. She’d been desperate to get her mother’s body back, desperate to start organising everything. And now she could and she felt herself suddenly, dramatically, losing momentum. ‘You should do it,’ she said.