Джон Бойн - A Ladder to the Sky

‘By the way,’ he said, finishing his pint and starting on the next one. ‘I have some good news.’

‘Oh yes?’ I asked. ‘What’s that?’

‘I got a commission to write a couple of book reviews for Time Out . I sent them a sample of my work and they offered me two novels for next month’s issues. If they’re happy with what I produce, then there’s a good chance I’ll get some more.’

‘That’s excellent news,’ I said, pleased for him. ‘Congratulations.’

‘Thanks, yeah. I’m really happy about it. It doesn’t pay much but it gets my name into print.’

‘And what have they asked you to review?’

He named a couple of authors and their new books and I nodded. ‘They’re good writers,’ I said. ‘I like both their work.’

‘So do I,’ he said. ‘That’s what worries me.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘Well, it would be much better if I got some bad novels to review. Preferably bad novels by famous writers. Then I could, you know, write some killer reviews. Really take them down.’

‘Make a name for yourself, you mean.’

‘Exactly.’

‘I suppose there’s nothing to stop you doing that, anyway,’ I said. ‘You don’t owe them anything.’

‘Problem is, if they get good reviews everywhere else and I write a negative one, I might just be seen as someone who didn’t fully understand the work.’

‘Or as someone with an independent mind.’

‘Perhaps. Anyway, I’m going to start reading the first one later tonight. Hopefully it will be terrible.’

‘Fingers crossed,’ I said.

I looked up as a shadow fell across our table and was alarmed to see Rufus and Garrett standing there, dreading the idea that they might want to join us.

‘Just wanted to say goodbye,’ said Rufus, setting my mind at rest. ‘We’re meeting some people for drinks at the Charlotte Street Hotel. To celebrate Garrett’s shortlisting. You’re welcome to join us if you like.’

‘Oh Lord, no,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I can scarcely think of anything I’d enjoy less.’

He reared back in surprise, as if I’d just made an unkind remark about his mother. He pushed his glasses up his nose again – really, he ought to get them tightened – and turned to Theo, and, in a heartbeat, the smile vanished from my face when I remembered my earlier lie.

‘Rufus Shawcross,’ he said, extending a hand. ‘I published your father’s first two novels.’

Theo stared at the hand for a moment, then shook it. ‘I’m sorry?’ he asked, frowning.

‘You’re… Danny, is that right?’

Theo looked at me for a moment, but I was lost for words. There was simply nothing I could say that would not make me look ridiculous.

‘Daniel,’ said Theo, turning back to Rufus. ‘No one ever calls me Danny. At least not since I was a little boy.’

‘Daniel, then,’ he said. ‘You have a very talented father. We need him to write another book, it’s been far too long. Well, it was nice to meet you, anyway. Goodbye, Maurice.’

‘Goodbye,’ I said, watching the pair of them as they walked away and dreading the moment I would have to turn back to Theo.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what made him say such a thing. He mustn’t know… he must have just assumed…’

‘It’s fine,’ he replied. ‘When you didn’t say anything, I thought it was easier just to go with it. I wasn’t sure what you wanted me to do.’

‘I don’t think I knew myself,’ I said. ‘But thank you, anyway. It made an awkward moment almost bearable.’

‘He seemed like a bit of a twat, anyway,’ said Theo.

‘No,’ I replied quietly, shaking my head. ‘No, he’s a very decent man, really. I shouldn’t have spoken to him in the way that I did.’

At home that night, I tried to put the events of the afternoon behind me, uncertain why I had passed Theo off as my son. The more I thought about it, however, the more I felt that I hadn’t lied, at least not intentionally. When Garrett had made his vulgar assertion, I had simply said what had felt real to me in the moment.

My routine had become completely destroyed since I’d met this boy and, unusually for me, I’d picked up a bottle of whisky on my way home and sat alone in my living room, drinking glass after glass. I wanted that sensation of release, of complete surrender to the alcohol. I wanted to fall into bed and have the empty dreams that I used to enjoy. I wanted to escape my life. But drinking alone at home held little appeal and I only managed a third of the bottle before I put it away and stumbled to my bedroom.

The days ahead would be peaceful, at least. Theo had essays to write, two novels to read and the Time Out reviews to draft and, having spent two consecutive afternoons together, I knew that I couldn’t ask him to join me on Friday too, even though I longed for his company now. I’d suggested the following Monday but he’d said no, that it was his father’s birthday, and before I could suggest Tuesday, he’d said the following Friday, which was just over a week away. I wasn’t sure that I could be without him until then, but I could hardly fall on my knees and beg him to reconsider so I had simply smiled, said that sounded good and that I would text him with a place at some point next week, even though I already knew where, because Fridays meant the Dog and Duck on Bateman Street.

I struggled to sleep that night and, shortly after midnight, returned to my whisky, this time managing to finish the bottle. It sat in my stomach, burning me from the inside out, and I stumbled several times as I made my way back to bed. When I finally fell asleep, I dreamed of Edith. She was standing in the bar of the Charlotte Street Hotel, surrounded by dead writers, drinking champagne. William Golding was sitting in a corner with Anthony Trollope, smoking a pipe. John McGahern was trying to catch the barman’s attention while Kingsley Amis emerged from the Gents, buttoning up his trousers. They were all offering congratulations. Something wonderful had happened to her and she was proud and excited. I looked around in search of myself among the party, but I was nowhere to be seen.

‘Has anyone seen Maurice?’ asked Edith, looking directly at me but failing to recognize me. ‘He should be here with me. Has anyone seen my husband? I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him.’

It was the first time that Theo was already waiting for me in the pub when I arrived.

‘Your bruise has healed,’ he said, nodding at my forehead.

‘It has, yes,’ I said. Although I’d been drinking steadily every afternoon and evening since our last encounter the previous Thursday, returning to my daily routine with a mixture of relief and dismay that he wasn’t there to join me, I had made sure to be extra careful when leaving each pub to make my way home. I couldn’t risk another accident. ‘And how was your week?’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘I read the first of those books that I agreed to review.’

‘And?’

‘Unfortunately, it was really good,’ he said.

‘Oh, well. Can’t be helped.’

‘I know. But I’ve started the second one and, so far, it’s a bit slow. So things are looking up.’

‘Excellent. You might find something to criticize there.’

‘Hopefully, yes.’

I smiled at him, but he didn’t smile back. I wondered whether he’d spent our time apart thinking about what I’d told him the previous week concerning Edith’s novel and how poorly I’d treated Dash.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked. ‘You seem a little quiet.’

‘I’m fine,’ he said, shaking his head but still failing to smile. I didn’t care for the fact that he seemed to be growing less deferential to me and more like an irritated friend. ‘How’s your work going?’