Simon Beckett - Fine Lines

“What are you talking about, “got himself into”?” Anna demanded. “You don’t know what’s happened to him! And what “things” has he done in the past? You mean like studying anthropology instead of selling toilet bowls? Like coming here instead of going to an American university? Is that what you call having a wayward son?”

“I find your attitude offensive.”

“Why? Because it’s not as narrow-minded as yours? How can you be so bloody pompous about this?” She stopped herself. “Listen. For the last time, Marty’s not homosexual. I don’t know where he is, or what’s happened to him, but I know it’s nothing to do with that. He went to gay clubs as part of his research, that’s all. If you don’t believe me, ask the university.”

It was like a reprise of her conversation with the police. With as much success.

“I’m afraid I don’t put much store in the opinion of English intellectuals,” Westerman said. “For all I know they probably encourage associating with moral degenerates themselves.”

Anna shook her head, violently. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this! Marty’s missing! You can’t just give up on him!”

“I can do whatever I see fit. I’ve spent time and money coming over here to try and find him, only to find out he’s been enjoying the company of deviants! It’s obvious to me now why he decided to disappear, and if he’d rather associate with... with pederasts than with decent people, then he can stay with them until he rots as far as I’m concerned!”

“Make your mind up!” Anna was shouting now. “A few days ago it was my fault. Now he’s run away because he’s come out of the closet! Which is it?”

“I’m not prepared to discuss this any further.” He made as if to leave. Anna moved in front of him.

“Well, you bloody should! If you pack up and go home, the police are going to give up as well, aren’t they? He’s your son for God’s sake! Does it matter what he did or who he mixed with?”

Westerman looked at her with an expression of triumph. “Obviously not to you, but I’m glad to say some people at least still have some sense of moral values.”

“Moral values?” Anna looked incredulous. “How can you talk about morals when you’re prepared to abandon him like this? What’s moral about that?”

“A damn sight more than mixing with perverts! But since you clearly don’t mind that, I doubt very much that you’ll be able to understand what I’m talking about.”

“I understand, all right, but I just can’t believe you mean it! He’s your son!” She repeated the fact as though Westerman had overlooked it. He gave a brittle shake of his head.

“Not any more.”

Anna closed her eyes, then appealed to me in desperation. “Donald, did Marty ever strike you as either a homosexual or a “deviant”?”

“No, not I began but Westerman interrupted as though I was not there.

“I’ve no more to say on the subject. You might like to know I intend to contact the police and embassy and let them know my reasons for leaving.”

“Why?” Anna cried. “Can’t you at least let them make up their own minds?”

“I’m sure they will. But if Marty’s going to disgrace himself, I want to make it quite clear to them I don’t condone it.”

“Disgrace himself?” Anna began, but Westerman was already moving to the door. I felt I had to say something.

“I must say I think you’re being completely unreasonable!”

He did not even look at me. “I don’t. This sort of decadence might be acceptable in your country, but it’s not in mine, thank God. And I’d thank you to stay out of this. I’ve no interest in discussing my actions with an ageing dilettante.”

I was still spluttering as he walked past me into the kitchen. Anna went after him.

“I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure meeting you,” she said. “But I’d be lying, and one hypocrite in a room’s enough.” She opened the front door and stared at him, coolly. “Goodbye, Mr. Westerman.”

Westerman hesitated, and seemed on the point of saying something else. Then he turned and left without another word.

Anna shut the door, not quite slamming it. She came back into the lounge. Neither of us spoke. She stood beside the table, staring into space. I realised I was shaking.

“Of all the... the insufferable... swine!” It was a woefully inadequate response, but anger and humiliation had robbed me of a more potent vocabulary. I avoided looking at her.

Anna said nothing. Her silence began to make me feel uncomfortable. I risked a glance. Her eyes were shiny with tears, but she held herself perfectly still. I searched for something to say, but once again found nothing.

“The bastard!” The words came without warning. Her face was twitching with the effort of holding back from crying, out of anger as much as anything else. “The cold-hearted fucking bastard!”

I was shocked at her language. She realised I was staring at her, and quickly shook her head. “I’m sorry, Donald, but... Christ, how can he? His own son! Doesn’t he care?”

“Apparently not.”

“How can he be so... so sanctimonious about it? He’s so bloody self-righteous! Doesn’t he realise what he sounds like? And the way he insulted you. There was no excuse for that. Yet he still acted as though we’d done something wrong!”

“Another example of the American disease of believing anything they do is right, because they’re American,” I said, belatedly finding my tongue now the man had left.

“Marty’s American, and he’s not like that.”

It was not a reprimand, but I hurriedly qualified my statement all the same. “No, I know. I daresay a lot of Americans aren’t. It’s just bigots like his father that give the country a bad name.” I still felt I had to say something more to re-establish myself. “I’m not sure who he hates the most, the English or homosexuals. The man’s clearly unbalanced.”

Anna showed no sign of hearing me. “Why has he got to make such a big issue out of going? If it upsets him that much, why doesn’t he just go? Why has he got to make a point of telling the police his reasons? It was hard enough convincing them to take it seriously in the first place. If they think Marty’s own father’s convinced he’s run off because he’s gay, they won’t even try any more.”

“I wouldn’t worry about him influencing them. I’m sure they’re capable of seeing Marty’s father for what he is.” I was sure of no such thing. Which made it all the easier to say.

Anna made no comment. Then she smiled tiredly across at me. “I bet you love coming here, don’t you? Never a dull moment.”

“I do seem to pick my moments to call, don’t I?” I said, and with sudden vertigo remembered the reason for my visit. Anger at Westerman had driven it out of my mind. My tension returned.

“I don’t know about you, but I feel like a drink,” Anna said. “What would you like?”

I clutched at the offer. “A brandy, if you have one. If not whisky will be fine.”

I waited while she poured the drinks and handed me a glass. I cleared my throat. “Have the police called for Marty’s notes yet?”

“No, not yet.” She sat down and rubbed her eyes. “I don’t know what they expect to find, anyway. Love letters between him and another man, or something. If they do, they’ll be disappointed. There’s nothing like that in them.”

It sounded more like an assertion than an opinion. I forced myself to wait until I had taken a drink before I asked, “Have you had a look yourself?”

“Only at the file he left here, not the ones at the university.”

“And there was nothing in it?”

“No, but I never expected there to be. Just notes, like you’d expect.”