Mark Mills - The Savage Garden

Antonella kissed Harry on both cheeks. "Good night, Harry."

The moment they were lost to Harry's view behind a screen of yew, Antonella asked, "Why does he call you Paddler?"

Adam explained that it had been a very young Harry's first stab at his newborn brother's name. Somehow it had lived on over the years, probably because Harry knew that it irritated Adam.

"I like it," said Antonella, hooking her arm through his. It was a simple gesture—intimate and formal at the same time—and it gave Adam the courage to ask the question he had just vowed to himself he wouldn't ask.

"Have you ever been up there?"

"Where?"

He pointed to the top floor of the villa. "There."

"No."

"Aren't you intrigued?"

"Of course I am. But it's not possible."

"What if I asked your grandmother?"

"She would say no."

"How do you know?"

"Because I asked her. It was my eighteenth birthday. I thought it would make a difference. It didn't. I was so angry I almost took the key and did it anyway."

"You know where she keeps the key?"

Antonella drew to a halt. "Why are you so interested?"

"Same as you, I suppose. Curiosity. Morbid curiosity. It must be a weird sight. And it'll be gone soon, gone forever."

"And we'll all be happy when it is."

Her car was parked at the edge of the courtyard.

"Are you okay to drive?"

"I think so."

"Take it slowly."

"I'm trying to," she said, "but it's hard."

He could make out enough of her expression in the moonlight to know that he hadn't misunderstood her meaning. "Then take it quickly."

Her teeth shone pale behind her smile. "Okay."

They kissed more urgently than they had the first time. His hand strayed to her buttocks, his palm drifting over the firm, round contours, absorbing the information and sending it to his brain. She didn't attempt to remove his hand. Quite the opposite. Her fingers pressed into the muscles of his back in encouragement.

When they finally broke off, he said breathlessly, "God, you have a beautiful . . . rear."

"Thank you. So do you."

He held her close and ran his fingers through her long hair.

"When are you leaving?" she asked.

"I don't know. Soon. That's why I didn't want Harry to say anything about the garden. I don't have an excuse to stay around now."

"Were you right? Did something bad happen?"

He hesitated. "Yes."

They kissed again, briefly, and then she got into her car. Peering up at him through the open window, she said, "I'll tell you where the key is if you promise not to get caught."

"It's a promise."

She told him. She also reminded him to grab another bottle of champagne for Harry. Then she fired the engine and pulled away.

It might have been a trick of the shadows, but he could have sworn he caught a flutter of movement behind one of the second- floor windows as the headlights swept the courtyard.

Harry had removed himself to a stone bench during Adam's absence. He was lying on his back, staring at the star-stained sky. Adam popped the cork and filled their glasses.

"Did you kiss her?"

"Yes."

"Bastard. She's too good for you."

"Thanks." "It's true," said Harry. "I mean, you're a bright young boy and everything—" He broke off suddenly, snapping upright and fixing Adam with an intense stare. "My God, you are a bright young boy, aren't you?"

"What?"

"Yes, you are. I mean, I've always known it . . . but do you have any idea what you did today?"

"We did it, Harry."

"Rubbish. You were there, half a step away. You would have figured it out."

Unaccustomed to hearing kind words from Harry, Adam wasn't quite sure how to react.

"The first person in how many years?"

"Three hundred and something."

"I thought it was more."

"We can push it to four if you think it'd make a better story."

Harry laughed. "It's a great story. This is going to change everything."

"Why?"

"Well, you can't go off and sell insurance after this."

"Why not?"

"Why not!? Anyone can sell insurance. How many people can do that?" Harry thrust his hand in the general direction of the memorial garden.

"What if I don't want to do that?"

"You've got to."

"Why?"

"Why!? Because you see things other people don't."

"No, I don't."

"Yes you do. You always have. Even when we were kids. It's true, Paddler. You were always taking things apart, looking at them from the inside out. Mum always says: the only baby she's ever known that tried to smash its rattle open. We still laugh about it."

"Oh, I'm happy for you both."

"You look at things differently, you see things differently."

"Then how come I looked at Flora and I didn't see her? Not really. I saw books."

"So you learned something. You'll be better next time."

"There isn't going to be a next time, Harry."

Harry grew serious, almost aggressive. "Listen to me. It's not like the other night. I'm not talking about your friends, I'm not talking about the last two years of your life—I'm talking about the rest of it."

"I know you are."

"You can't become an insurance man."

"I don't have a choice! Someone's got to, and you're not going to!"

The vehemence of his reply was almost as shocking to him as it was to Harry.

"Jesus, Paddler—"

"It's true. The moment you said no to Dad, it was always going to be me."

Harry placed his palms together. "Listen to me. It's your life, not his. Do you want his life? Well, do you? Living in a place like Purley with a couple of kids? Is that what you want, catching the same bloody train every morning, moaning about rationing, worrying about your pension . . . screwing your secretary because you don't love your wife anymore?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Screwing ... your . . . secretary," said Harry with slow deliberation.

"Dad's not screwing his secretary." "Isn't he?"

"You're drunk."

"I wouldn't be telling you if I wasn't."

Adam eyed his brother for a moment, then laughed. "That's good, Harry. You're still good, I'll give you that." He'd fallen for enough of these in the past to know what was coming next.

"On Mum's life," said Harry solemnly.

Adam sobered up fast.

"His secretary ...?"

"Vanessaaaaa."

Vanessa was very smart, very well spoken. Her father was a high-ranking civil servant, and she knew all the dates in the social calendar by heart.

"The one who likes operaaaaa. You can just see it, can't you? Dad snoring his way through Wagner, then running for the last train home."

"How do you know?"

"Mum."

"She told you?"

"I asked her. You must have noticed something—the house . . . her hair . . . shoes . . . she's let things go."

Had he really been that blind?

"She was asking to be asked."

Adam dumped himself dejectedly on the bench beside his brother.

"They've talked about it," said Harry. "He doesn't know what he wants to do."

"Did he tell her, or did she find out?"

Somehow it seemed important to know.

"What do you think?"

"Bastard." "You in thirty years if you're not careful. He made the wrong choice too. Remember how he used to make us laugh? He was a funny man once. How long since he was funny? How long since Mum drew a happy breath?"

Adam lit a cigarette, then turned to Harry. "The Giant Rat of Sumatra?"

"Like I said, you're a bright young boy."

IT WASN'T SURPRISING THAT HE AWOKE SNARLED IN THE sheet. What surprised him was the fact that he'd managed to sleep at all. At some ungodly hour of the night he'd given up even trying to, surrendering to the turmoil in his head.