Ben Cheetham - The Society of Dirty Hearts

“Enough? What the fuck does that mean?”

“I guess it means that some of us, no matter how much money we have, will never be happy.”

Jake spat in the fire. “Shit, you gotta be rich in the first place to talk like that.”

They sat in silence a moment, watching the flames shoot shadows up the walls. Jake drew a long breath suddenly, rubbing his hand over his chest as though there was a pain there. “It’s funny,” he said. “Mia used to reckon that if I hurt myself she felt it. She said it was ’cos the souls of twins are linked by ES…ES something.”

“ESP,” said Julian, thinking about his grandma.

“Yeah, that’s it.” Jake looked at Julian with a kind of appeal in his eyes. “Do you reckon that’s true?”

Julian felt a prickle at the back of his throat. Any suggestion of the supernatural put him on edge. He wanted to reply with a flat no, but couldn’t bring himself to — not in the face of the vulnerability Jake was exposing to him. He shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“If it is true, that means Mia can’t be dead. ’Cos if she was I’d have felt something, wouldn’t I?”

Julian said nothing. Jake nodded to himself as if reinforcing his belief in the possibility. He jumped up. “Where you going?” asked Julian.

“To look for Ginger. What’s your mobile number?” As Julian told him, Jake tapped it into his own phone. “I’ll call you when I find her.”

Jake headed for the doorway. He paused to look back at Julian, eyes narrow. “You sure you didn’t fuck my sister? ’Cos if I find out you’re lying…” He broke off and let the words hang between them.

“I could of, but I didn’t,” said Julian, holding Jake’s gaze, but cringing inwardly at the gruesome image the threat conjured up.

When Julian got home, Wanda was gone and his dad was there, drinking whisky. There was a slight glaze over his pupils that told Julian he already had a few glasses under his belt. He stared at Julian for half-a-minute, not speaking, looking straight into his eyes, as if trying to see inside his skull. Then he said, “I thought you were coming back to the hospital.”

“I meant to, but I took Henry for a walk and, well, I guess I just kind of lost track of time.”

“You just kind of lost track of time,” Robert enunciated slowly, his voice loaded with reproach.

Julian felt heat rise to his face. “How’s Mum?”

“No change. If she has a good night, she can come home in the morning.”

“That’s good.” Julian blinked awkwardly from his dad’s alcohol-flushed face. “I’m going to head to bed.”

“Wait a moment, Julian,” said Robert, as his son started to turn away. “We need to talk.”

Julian’s heart sank at the prospect of getting into another row. “Can’t it wait? I’m totally whipped.”

Robert shook his head, motioning to the sofa. As Julian sat down, his dad pointed to the whisky bottle. “You want one?”

Surprised, Julian nodded. His dad had never offered to share his whisky with him before. Robert poured him a generous measure. He swallowed a mouthful and choked — he wasn’t used to drinking spirits straight.

Robert shook his head, almost smiling. “Easy. Just sip it or you’ll get sick.”

“I know that.” There was a slightly petulant twist to Julian’s lips.

Robert gave him another long, direct look. “Yes, I guess you do,” he said gravely. He finished his drink in a gulp, watching Julian over the rim of his glass. “Look, about what happened this morning, you were in the wrong taking my car, but I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I’m sorry.”

Julian sipped his drink, not quite sure how to respond. First the whisky, now an unheard-of apology, what next? An acceptance of his decision to leave university? “I know we’ve had our differences recently,” continued Robert, “but we’re going to be spending a lot of time around each other, so we might as well start trying to get along. For our sakes and your mum’s sake.”

A sardonic smile crossed Julian’s lips. “Why don’t you just say it straight, Dad? This isn’t about me and you at all. This is about Mum.”

“It’s about all of us. Sure, it’s about caring for your mum and keeping her alive. But it’s also about building a future for after she’s-” Robert couldn’t bring himself to say the word in his mind. He took another big mouthful of whisky, wincing as it went down. His eyes grew glassier.

Jesus, he’s going to cry, thought Julian. His dad wasn’t the type to cry in front of anyone. When Christine first got ill and it was touch and go whether she’d survive, he never broke down once in front of Julian. A week after she went into hospital, Julian had woken in the dead of night and thought he heard sobbing through the walls. But he hadn’t been sure. His sardonic smile evaporated. He wanted to reach out to his dad, put an arm around him, but he didn’t know how. When he’d turned thirteen and puberty hit, his dad had stopped hugging him. It was like an invisible barrier had sprung up between them. Julian had been confused and upset, but his mum told him, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you, it just means you’re growing up into a young man. Do you understand? He’d nodded, but he hadn’t understood. Not really. He just never questioned his mum at that age.

Robert gave a sharp sniff, sucking the tears back in before they could form. “You know, Julian, I want to believe you’re working at the factory because you really want to. Not simply because you’re bored with university and can’t think of anything else to do.”

“I’m there because that’s where I need to be,” Julian said, and it was the truth, nothing more or less. Looking at his dad’s worn down, used up face, he found himself seriously wondering if there’d even be a business for him to take over if he stuck it out at university. “Just give me a chance to prove it.”

Robert chewed over his appeal, brow creased, then said, “Okay, Julian. If you want a chance, you got it.” He managed a smile. “Truth be told, I’m glad you’re here.” He reached out to take Julian’s wrist and tugged at it. Just one brief, gentle tug, but, coupled with the words, it was enough to throw Julian completely off balance.

He glanced from his dad’s hand to his face, as if doubting his senses. “I’d better go to bed,” he said quietly.

Robert withdrew his hand. “Thanks for this chat, Julian. You’ve made me feel much better, much clearer in my mind.”

“Have I?”

Robert nodded. “Go and get a good night’s rest.”

With slow, uncertain movements, Julian rose and headed for his bedroom. Behind him there was the clink of glass on glass, the hollow gurgling sound of liquid being poured into a tumbler. He paused to look back at his dad. “I’m sorry, too, about this morning.”

“I know you are.”

Lying in the darkness of his bedroom, the whisky burning in his belly, Julian rubbed his arm where he could still feel his dad’s touch. Over and over, he ran through their conversation. He couldn’t work out what he’d said or done to change things between himself and his dad. But they had changed. And something must’ve been the catalyst. But what? Maybe his dad had simply come to the realisation that he couldn’t hold it all together alone anymore. Maybe he needed someone to share the weight. The thought settled on Julian heavily. An hour or so later, when his ear caught what sounded like a sob from the living-room, it grew so heavy that it felt like he had a brick in his chest.

At breakfast, Robert sat silent and distant, the strain of a long, sleepless night etched in his face. There was a strain in the air, too. Julian wondered if it was simply down to worry about his mum, or if there was more to it. There was something about his dad’s scrunch-shouldered posture, about the way he was careful to avoid looking too directly in Julian’s eyes, which hinted at embarrassment, sheepishness, perhaps even a slight degree of shame. He was relieved when Wanda arrived and noisily set about cleaning the kitchen. “Do you really need to do that now?” asked Robert, wincing a little at each clatter of pots and pans.