Майкл Ридпат - Fatal Error

Owen moved fast. He grabbed the man by the collar, whipped him off his feet and pinned him against a wall. ‘You leave him alone,’ he hissed.

The man’s intoxicated eyes looked confused. Then they seemed to focus. He spat, spraying Owen full in the face.

Owen dropped one hand and hit the man in the stomach. Hard. Very hard. The man slumped to the ground retching.

Guy grabbed hold of Owen and pulled him back. Owen stared at the man on the pavement, his black eyes gleaming.

‘Get him away!’ I shouted to Guy.

I bent down next to the man, who was gasping for breath. I sat him up against the wall. As the breathing came back the swearing started.

‘How are your ribs?’ I tried to feel the man’s chest but he pushed my hand away. ‘Shall I get an ambulance?’

A stream of abuse. I sat there with him swearing at me for a couple of minutes. He seemed to be recovering. I pulled out a ten-pound note, stuffed it in his pocket and left him. He didn’t thank me. I didn’t expect him to.

I waited until I was quite sure Owen was in California before I saw Guy again. We went to see a friendly international at Wembley. England were playing Brazil and amazingly managed to hold them to a one — one draw. After the game he gave me a lift in his electric-blue Porsche. As we sat in the car park with U2 loud on the stereo, waiting for several thousand vehicles in front of us to move, I mentioned Owen’s visit.

‘It was interesting what your brother said about the gardener being found murdered.’

‘Yes,’ said Guy, sounding uninterested.

‘Were they sure it was him who killed Dominique?’

‘Absolutely sure.’

‘I see.’

I listened to Bono for a minute, summoning up the courage for my next question.

‘Guy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you remember the police found one of your footprints outside Dominique’s window?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did it get there?’

Guy paused to let in the clutch as the car in front moved forward six feet.

‘I went for a pee on the way to bed.’

‘No you didn’t.’

‘Of course I did,’ said Guy, avoiding my eye, focusing on the car in front.

‘I was there, remember? You came straight back to the guest cottage with me.’

‘No. You’ve got that wrong. You’re thinking about some other night. That night I stopped off for a slash in the bushes. The police checked it all out. It’s five years ago. You must be confused.’

I opened my mouth to protest and then closed it again. History had been rewritten as far as Guy was concerned, and the rewriting had received the official police stamp of approval. It was his version of what happened and he would use the force of his personality to make sure it was the only version. The trouble was, I knew it was a lie.

‘I’m seeing Dad tomorrow night. Do you want to come?’ Guy asked.

‘No thanks.’

‘Why not? It’ll be fun. We’ll go out to dinner and then maybe on to a club later. Don’t worry, he’ll pay.’

‘No, really. I’d rather not see him. I suspect he’d rather not see me.’

‘After France?’

‘After France.’

The line of cars in front of us began to move. Guy kept the Porsche within a foot of the Vauxhall in front to make sure no one else barged in.

‘I try, but it’s hard to forget France,’ he said. ‘I still blame my father for what he did to Mel.’

‘I’m not surprised. But you still see him?’

‘Oh, yes. He’s a player, you know what I mean?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘He knows how to live. How to have a good time. He doesn’t take himself too seriously, or other people. Sure, sometimes other people get hurt, like I did and Mel did. But they forget.’

‘You can’t go through life thinking about yourself all the time.’

‘Why not?’ Guy said. ‘It’s not as if anyone else is going to look out for you, is it? I don’t mean you should actively harm other people. But you have to go out and grab what you want.’

‘And that’s what you’ve learned from your father?’ I said, unable to hide the distaste in my voice.

‘Oh, come on, it’s not that bad. Live and let live is all it is.’

‘So what does Owen think?’

‘Owen and Dad are on different planets. The only reason he talks to Dad at all is to keep me happy.’

‘It seems strange to me you two are so close. I mean, you seem so different from each other.’

‘We are. But we’ve always helped each other out. Right from when Owen was born.’

I felt like pointing out the obvious contradiction with Guy’s earlier musings, but I decided not to. Emotions have their own logic, as do families.

‘Mom and Dad have occasionally shown some interest in me,’ Guy went on, ‘but none at all in Owen. Basically, I’ve been the only person looking out for him. And he looks out for me.’

He laughed. ‘I remember when I was eight. Mom and Dad were still together and we were living in LA. We were by the swimming pool. I had committed some minor crime, taking a glass down to the poolside or something, and my father was tearing strips off me. He used to get really angry then, probably because he was pissed off with Mom. Anyway, he was taking it out on me. It went on for ten minutes or so.

‘Owen was watching it all. He was only five, but he was a big five-year-old, as you can imagine. Suddenly he let out this horrible scream and charged my father. The two of them went flying into the pool. Dad was wearing a suit. He was not amused. Owen went to bed early for a week. But he didn’t care. He was just pleased he’d helped me. It’s good when you’ve got a brother like that.’

‘It must be,’ I said, but I was thinking how lucky I was to have a normal sister whom I quite liked but scarcely saw rather than a brother like Owen.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to come tomorrow night?’ Guy said.

‘Quite sure. But I hope you have a good time together.’

I saw him a couple of days later in the pub after work. Or after my work. I guessed he had spent the afternoon watching television.

‘So, how did it go with your dad?’

Guy scowled. ‘Nightmare.’

‘Late night, was it?’

‘No. Not that kind of nightmare. A real nightmare. He wants me to get a job.’

‘Outrageous.’

‘Don’t be so bloody sarcastic. I told him acting was my job. It can be damned hard work. But he doesn’t seem to think that counts. He says I’m pissing away my life. He said he’s going to cut off my money.’

‘Harsh,’ I said. I had always been curious where Guy got his funds from.

‘Yeah. I’ve got a couple of trusts set up by Patrick Hoyle and I get the income from them. I said he couldn’t do anything about them, they were mine. He assured me he could. And I’m sure he can. Hoyle would do anything for him, including stopping me getting my hands on my own cash.’

‘The rest of us have to work,’ I said.

‘Don’t come over all proletarian with me, Davo. I know lots of people have to work. But not my father. It’s the hypocrisy that gets me. If it’s OK for him to spend his life lying around by pools on the French Riviera or skiing in Villars, why can’t I go to the pub every now and then?’

‘But he made his money,’ I said.

‘That’s exactly what he said,’ Guy muttered crossly. ‘It still pisses me off. And he’s going to sell my plane.’

‘Sounds like you’re in trouble.’

‘Yeah.’ Guy finished his beer and stood up to fetch a refill. ‘But I’m not going to give in. I know I can act. In a couple of years, I’ll show him.’

He returned with a bottle of beer for him and a pint of bitter for me. ‘Anyway, how are you?’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘Ingrid’s coming back to London next week.’