The End is Where We Begin Page 9

  “I’m gonna jump in the shower,” I tell him, already stripping off my T-shirt, “can you get some water boiling for dinner?”

  He smiles, but it’s not at me. It’s at his damn phone. But it isn’t the smile that usually spreads over his face when he’s texting – that of a sniggering schoolboy, the one that tells me he’s exchanging rude or snide remarks with one of his mates. It’s a soft, contented smile. I have a feeling it’s Chloe.

  “Josh?”

  “What?”

  “Water—”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  I’m about to walk away when my curiosity gets the better of me.

  “Who are you chatting with?”

  “What?” he asks, glancing up for the first time. “No one. I mean, just, you know, friends.”

  He’s lying, I know. He looks shifty.

  “Put that washing away please,” I say, heading for the bathroom, knowing I’ll get no more out of him.

  According to Josh’s friends, I’m meant to be the laid-back, lenient, easy-going dad, since I’m about fifteen years younger than most of their parents. I’m meant to be the cool dad, the one that lets Josh get away with things they’re not allowed to, the one who’s more like a friend than a parent. Evidently, I’m not that dad, which they find highly amusing. They rib Josh about it all the time – the way I lay down rules, monitor his homework, correct his grammar. In front of his friends he takes it in good humour, shaking his head despairingly and muttering about how lame I am. But when we’re alone it’s another matter. Nothing causes more arguments between us than me “doing my anal parenting thing”.

  “Why can’t we just eat in front of the TV for once like normal people?” Josh complains, slumping into a kitchen chair.

  “The amazing thing about on demand, Josh, is that you can watch what you want when you want,” I tell him, sliding two bowls of pasta onto the table, “which means you’re not missing anything.”

  “Seriously, we are, like, the only family I know who never eat dinner in front of the TV.”

  “We are like them? You mean we resemble them?”

  I know this is going to antagonise him, but I’m easily irritated tonight. I’ve been going in circles in my head all week, dissecting last week’s encounter with Libby, feeling increasingly angry at myself for the rubbish way I handled it and sad about the outcome.

  Josh tuts. “I mean we are the only family I know.”

  “Really? The only family you know? Somehow I can’t imagine the Stapleton-Porters sprawling on the sofas at mealtimes.”

  “Actually, they do. Well, not her parents maybe, but last time I had dinner at Chloe’s, we ate in the games room in front of the telly.”

  “That’s because you were about nine the last time you ate dinner at Chloe’s.”

  “No, I wasn’t. It was, like, a year ago.”

  “What’s the games room anyway? Where they keep the billiard table?”

  Josh rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Dad, it’s where they keep the billiard table. It’s right above the servants’ quarters.”

  I like to tease Josh about Chloe’s family being rich, mainly because it seems to annoy him, but also because it’s a way of venting my envy. It’s not so much their wealth I’m jealous of; in reality, they’re not really what you would call rich, and I’ve never been particularly materialistic anyway, which is handy under the circumstances. But it’s the comfortable middle-class security of the Stapleton-Porters’ lifestyle I begrudge. I know I have no right, but they have one of those perfect-looking lifestyles that brings to mind the families I knew at St John’s and aggravates the chip on my shoulder. They’ve been able to give their child everything I would have liked to have given mine – great birthday parties, nice holidays, music lessons, a lovely home. And, most importantly, two parents.

  “So you’ve never sat down with Chloe’s parents to eat?” I ask.

  Seeing as she’s been brought into the conversation, I’m reluctant to let talk of Chloe drop. I want him to open up about his feelings for her. Josh can be a typical cagey teenager, but with a little probing he tells me most things. I think.

  “No, we’ve never sat down to eat dinner with her parents. In the same way we’ve never sat down to eat dinner with you.”

  “Because?”

  “Because it would be cringeworthy. Plus, you’ve never asked her to stay for dinner.”

  “Well, maybe I should.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t.”

  “I could get to know her better.”

  “You’ve known her for, like, seven years.”

  “Yeah, but I never get to have a proper conversation with her. It might be nice to find out what’s going on with her these days, what she’s up to…”

  Josh frowns at me as if I’ve lost my mind.

  “What for?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know.”

  I’m not even sure why I’m suggesting this now. The idea of sitting down and making polite conversation with Chloe over dinner would probably be just as painful for me as it would for her.

  Josh shakes his head, bemused. “You’re hardly Mr Sociable, Dad.”

  “All right, forget I mentioned it.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Josh shovels pasta into his mouth, his head bent over his bowl. I pick at a couple of pieces of fusilli. I’m not hungry despite the fact I haven’t eaten anything since a bacon roll at ten o’clock this morning. My appetite’s been non-existent ever since my ill-fated trip to Camden.

  “Can I go out after dinner?” Josh asks.

  “Where?”

  “Just into town.”

  “With?”

  “The usual.”

  “Specifically?”

  “Specifically, the same people I always hang out with.”

  “To do what?”

  “Don’t know. Whatever.”

  I chew slowly and stare at him, waiting.

  “Probably go to the park for a bit,” he offers.

  “You’ll come home before dark,” I order, wagging my fork at him.

  “I’ll come home before dark,” he sighs, as if he’s heard it all a million times, “and I won’t talk to any strangers and I won’t take the shortcut home and I won’t walk too close to bushes people could jump out from and I’ll watch out for any cars or vans pulling up alongside me.”

  I hate his smart-arse attitude, but I’m also glad he’s able to reel off all these safety precautions. He thinks I’m over the top, but he has no idea of the dangers out there.

  “Have you done any work on your assignment today?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  “Can I see?”

  Josh probes his pasta.

  “Well, I mean I didn’t get that much actually done. But I thought about what I’m going to do next.”

  “Well, thinking about doing something isn’t the same as doing it, is it?”

  Josh sighs, reaches for his glass and very slowly gulps down an entire pint of orange squash. Then he picks up his fork again.

  “Josh?”

  “What?”

  “It’s not the same thing, is it?”

  “I’ve got the whole summer.”

  I shake my head despairingly. I am so sick of having to bang on about schoolwork.

  “Josh, come on—”

  “Dad, just drop it okay? I’m doing it.”

  “Yeah, except you’re not, are you?”

  “Oh my God, will you just get off my back about this project?!”

  “I’d love to not have to be on your back all the time.”

  “Really? ’Cause, seriously, it’s, like, non-stop.”

  A tense silence falls between us while we pick unenthusiastically at our food.

  “You know what would be way more useful to me than doing this dumb music assignment?” he finally mutters. “If you’d actually let me get some experience—”

  “Don’t even start this again.”

  “Why?!”

  “Because you’re too y
oung!”

  I could kill Michael for having put this idea in my son’s head. I know he thinks Josh is talented, and that he wants to nurture that talent, but suggesting my child jumps in on one of his gigs was way out of line. He should have asked me first, but when he gets excited by an idea, he just never stops to think.

  “It would just be a couple of songs—”

  “No. You’re not doing a gig in a pub—”

  “The Canal House!”

  “Which is a pub! It still gets rowdy down there when there’s a band.”

  “What exactly do you think would happen to me?”

  “That’s not the point. You’ve just turned fifteen—”

  “Exactly! I’m not a child anymore!”

  “That’s exactly what you are! And it’s my job to keep you safe.”

  “I am safe! I couldn’t be any bloody safer!”

  He stands up and angrily scrapes the reminder of his pasta into the bin.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Out,” he mumbles, leaving the kitchen, “unless you think leaving the flat is too dangerous.”

  I open my mouth to call him back, but suddenly I feel exhausted and can’t face the drama. It’s been a horrible week of regret and rumination following my meet-up with Libby, and I need to shift this mindset. I glance out the window at the clear blue evening sky.

  There’s somewhere I want to go. I’ve been thinking about it a lot this week, and there’s plenty of time before it gets dark.

  A few seconds later, I hear the door slam.

  Exactly one year on from the night of the fairground I walked all the way to the cemetery. It took me well over an hour, and by the time I got there, my new trainers had rubbed both heels to the point of bleeding. It seemed fitting, like a penance. I vowed I’d do that walk on the same date every year.

  I never went again.

  Until now.

  I park the van on the main road, and by the time I walk apprehensively through the wrought-iron gates, the sun is going down. The evening air is cool against my bare forearms, and the scent of freshly mowed grass and this afternoon’s rain lingers. The cemetery is huge, but I know exactly where I’m heading. Our lives rush forward like high-speed trains, but he’ll forever be in one place.

  The grave is beautifully kept, as unaltered by time as the grief of those who tend it.

  I crouch down, my eyes scanning the chiselled lettering on the headstone.

  Barclay James Macintyre

  Beloved son of Carole and Peter

  Forever in our thoughts

  I shake my head slowly. “If I’d done things differently that night…” I whisper.

  I close my eyes and there we are again, for the millionth time, trapped in an eternal loop, stumbling over clods of mud in the darkness, laughing. The sweet taste of candyfloss in my mouth. The distant thud of music. The soft fur of a polar bear beneath my fingertips.

  … wearing gay shorts…

  … gonna give it to her tonight…?

  … so immature…

  … what was that noise…?

  … just a fox…

  … are you scared…

  … Tom…!

  … Shit! He’s bleeding…

  … let’s go…!

  He looks straight at me, firelight reflected in his swollen eyes. Blood running down his bruised face, a strand of hair plastered to his forehead.

  I know him.

  I know who he is.

  With a sharp intake of breath, my eyelids spring open. I put the tip of my thumb between my teeth, bite down hard, gaze at the headstone there in front of me.

  Beloved son

  Forever in our thoughts

  I close my eyes again.

  We need to get help!

  I am racing, my trainers pounding the towpath, my breath jagged and painful.

  Then turning in circles, the inky star-studded sky spinning above me.

  Which way? Which way?

  The lockhouse or the Kingfisher?

  The Kingfisher or the lockhouse?

  Turning, turning…

  And then I’m flying, the blackness of the canal rushing by at my side.

  I burst through the door of the pub, music spilling out into the night, faces turning towards me.

  Slow down there, son.

  Hey, isn’t that Richard’s boy?

  My knees hit the floor and I’m on all fours, a nauseating swirl of faded blue carpet filling my vision, the stench of stale beer, flecks of crisp trodden into the pile. And blood. My own blood.

  Steady on, young man.

  Nine nine nine, I gasp, you’ve gotta call nine nine nine.

  And then I vomit sweet, sickly pink liquid onto the swirling pattern beneath me.

  I open my eyes again and drop onto my knees, feeling the dampness of the grass seeping through the denim of my jeans. I count in a whisper.

  “One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven…”

  How much can be accomplished in sixty seconds?

  You can ignite the fire that will burn down a forest. You can give the final push that will bring life into the world. You can give the order to start a war. You can press the button that will send a rocket to the moon.

  But you can’t save a life once you’ve made a wrong decision.

  Regret weighs heavily on my chest, squeezing the breath out of me. I can feel it starting. The band around my ribcage, the tightening in my throat. I try to count, breathing slowly, deeply. I open my mouth, my lips and tongue uncomfortably dry, as I try to drag in some air.

  Zzzzzzzzz.

  The vibration in my back pocket startles me.

  I stand up quickly, digging frantically for my phone, blood rushing to my head. The world tips sideways slightly before righting itself.

  I know it’s going to be about Josh, I just know it. A rival group of lads from another school, an addict with a knife, a drunk driver…

  But by the time I have my phone in my hand the buzzing has already stopped. It was just a text message coming through. No emergency then.

  Hi. Hope you don’t mind me texting like this. Found your number on internet. You took me by surprise Monday. I would like to talk. Can we meet? Libby.

  The breath that’s been trapped inside me rushes out with a sigh. I reread the message six times. Relief floods through me that I didn’t do the wrong thing in finding her, that I haven’t just made things worse.

  My thumb fumbles across the keys.

  Yes, that would be great.

  I pause, unsure what else to write. Thanks? When? Where? Why?

  And then I just press send, because what else is there to say? It would be great, that’s all.

  I push my phone back into my pocket and stare at the headstone, my sense of despair subsided.

  For the first time in ages I feel like I might be able to start my journey towards some kind of peace, some kind of resolution to everything that started that night.

  For the first time in ages I feel hope again.

  Chapter 8

  Hope

  I remember that when I left Hellie in drizzly Manchester – trudging out of her halls of residence with a holdall, a hangover and a sense of regret – she’d promised to call me over the Christmas holidays. She’d be coming home for three weeks and we’d have to get together, she’d said, kissing me goodbye on the cheek. Yeah, sure, I’d smiled, feeling nauseous and disorientated.

  So when it reached January and she hadn’t called, I welcomed in the new year with a sense of relief. My life was once again on track. I was overwhelmingly happy to be back with Libby, grateful my school suspension was over, and I was moving on from the trauma of last year. I was no longer anxious or angry all the time. I was no longer having nightmares. I just wanted to leave what had happened in the past – all of it, including Hellie. I imagined that’s what she wanted, too.

  So when she phoned me one Saturday afternoon at the end of January, I was disappointed.

  “The thing is,” I told her
quietly, not wanting to be overheard by my parents, “me and Libby are back together. We have been for a few weeks now.”

  “So?”

  “So I’m really sorry, Hellie, I just don’t think I should see you. Not after, you know…” my voice dropped to a whisper, “what happened between us.”

  “Chill out, Jay, you’re safe. I’m not looking to screw you again.”

  Hellie was always straight to the point, her capacity for bluntness hidden beneath her blue-eyed, blonde-haired angelic veneer and the gently undulating rise and fall of her accent.

  I sighed inwardly, knowing that if I saw Hellie I was going to have to be honest with Libby about it. But could I refuse to see Hellie? Was that a terrible thing to do after what had happened between us? After all, she hadn’t done anything wrong. Well, technically, I was still adamant that neither of us had done anything wrong, seeing as Libby and I – in my books at least – had no longer been a couple. But still, if I met with Hellie then Libby was bound to be upset. I couldn’t put my relationship back on the line.

  “I just… I’m really sorry, I just don’t think I should. It’s just that me and Libby… it was kind of a misunderstanding and now—”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  I don’t think there has ever been another moment in my life when my brain has refused to compute in such a way. The processor whirred round and round but struggled to produce one single piece of output.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  A stream of thoughts suddenly rushed through my mind, all of them desperately trying to lead me to the safety of denial.

  She’s wrong. She’s lying. She’s joking. It’s someone else’s, she just wants me to know. Why would she just want me to know? For support, of course! You’re meant to be her friend. Maybe she’s got a boyfriend. Maybe they planned it. Would she have planned it? Probably not, given that she’s eighteen and at university…

  “It’s yours,” she said matter-of-factly, “just to clarify.”

  I looked around me, stupidly, as if the answer might lie somewhere nearby.