Phil paused. He fiddled with the stem of his wine glass. ‘The afternoon before the masked ball, one of the boys was showing us some magic tricks and King got out a pack of cards. He challenged us to a game of poker and told us all to put some money in. It was against the rules but the other teacher wasn’t around and he knew no one would dare report him. Everyone was excited to play except Raj; he just sat and read a book and wouldn’t join in. The boys were slapping down tens and twenties like it was Monopoly money. I lost all my term’s pocket money. King said I’d have to sell dishcloths and dusters door to door round the council estate and everybody laughed.’
Phil picked up his glass, looking momentarily surprised to see it was almost empty, and put it down again. ‘King poked my trainers with his toe and said I could put them in, joked they weren’t worth much now someone like me had worn them. I felt sick at the thought of losing them, but everyone started chanting, “trainers, trainers, trainers”, louder and louder. I saw Raj shaking his head but I didn’t want to stick out like him so I put them into the pot. King won that hand, scooped up all the money and held up my trainers like he’d won the FA Cup. He wore them to the ball that night even though they looked stupid with his Plague-doctor costume. He did it just to taunt me. I was so glad when he disappeared halfway through the evening.’
Cate felt the tension she didn’t realise she’d still been carrying lift away like a dandelion puff blowing through the air. Now everything made sense. The predatory Mr King had to be Nat’s attacker. Her hand itched to reach into her bag for her phone, to give Nat closure, whatever that was worth. But right now, it was Phil who needed her.
She reached across the table to hold his hand. ‘Why haven’t you said anything to me before? Why have you kept it all to yourself?’
‘Because whatever King did wasn’t an excuse for what I did next. I knew being friends with Evan and his mates would protect me. I would have done anything to join their gang. And I hate myself for it.’
Cate frowned. ‘I don’t understand. You and Evan arebest friends.’
‘Not the way Raj and I were.’ He finished his glass of wine in one gulp. ‘If I tell you the truth, you’ll despise me, the way I despise myself. And I just couldn’t bear it.’
‘Whatever you did back then, you were just a child. But I have to know.’ Her other hand tightened around her wine glass. ‘Phil, you have to tell me the truth or we can’t go on. You have to tell me what else happened in Venice.’
39
VENICE, TWENTY-FIVE YEARS EARLIER
The room was stifling, the dormitory stuffy with the smell of eight boys. Phil wished he could switch on the light and absorb himself in hisHarry Potterbook but he couldn’t risk disturbing the others.
He swung his legs out of bed, un-balled his abandoned socks, slipped his plastic room key into his pyjama pocket and groped his way across the room. He paused, hand on the doorknob, waiting, his breathing fast. One boy kicked at his bed covers in his sleep; no one woke. Six boys slept on; one other boy-shaped hump was missing. Evan wasn’t there. Had he also gone wandering in the night?
The long, panelled corridor was quiet, lit dimly by wall sconces decorated with scrolls and leaves. Phil made his way towards the staircase at the end, his footfall softened by the patterned runner, as quiet as one of the hooded monks with candles who had walked there centuries before him when the building played host to holy men, not boisterous school groups.
He climbed the stairs. A wooden bench stood midway along the upper corridor. He ran his hand along its sturdy back; even at this hour, he could not pass it without stopping to appreciate the fine carving. He’d never be as talented as the artisans who’d created St Mark’s Basilica but one day, he’d learn to make something like this.
The arched doorway leading to the upper floor’s outside balcony was half-hidden behind a sage-green curtain patterned with fleur-de-lys. Phil prayed the door had been left unlocked so he might spend the hours before breakfast watching the city of Venice as it woke up: the coming of the dawn, the changing colour of the sky, the delivery boats taking goods to businesses around the city, the rubbish barge with its red crane lifting sacks of refuse.
He pushed open the door. A sweet, pungent smell, heavy on the night air, hit him. For a moment, he was catapulted back into the stairwell of his London housing estate. A boy sat on the floor, pyjama bottoms rolled up, bare feet resting on the railings. The glowing tip of a hand-rolled spliff illuminated Evan’s face. Phil’s loud gasp came out before he thought to stifle it.
Evan swung around. ‘Oi, Phil! Where are you going? Come here.’
Phil glanced over his shoulder.
‘Don’t worry, no one comes out here, at least not at three o’clock in the morning. And you haven’t been here either. You’ve not seen anything.’ There was an edge to Evan’s voice.
‘I’m not a snitch.’
‘No, I don’t suppose you are. Probably get you stabbed, where you come from. Sit down. Have a drag.’ He held out the joint.
‘No, I’m all right, thanks.’ Phil leant against the railing. ‘But why?’
‘Why am I taking drugs, risking everything?’ Evan’s voice was sarcastic. He sighed. ‘I dunno. Boredom? Stress?’
‘You?’
‘Yeah, me. Straight-A student, captain of the rugby team, bloody rich family. Sometimes…’
‘What?’
Evan’s face closed up. ‘Nothing. Anyway, it’s not heroin, it’s only a bit of blow; it’s no biggie. Some of my mother’s friends snort coke on their girls’ night out. She says she doesn’t but I reckon she does. My father’s pretty difficult to live with.’
‘Yeah, it’s no biggie.’ It was for Phil. Drugs meant next-door’s baby being taken into care and the guy who sat on a sheet of cardboard in the doorway of Poundland shouting incoherent profanities: everyday tales from the world he and Raj had left behind. Phil wasn’t going to stay out here, risk being caught and going back to that.
‘You sure you don’t want some?’
‘Nah.’ Phil yawned theatrically. ‘I’m off back to bed; think I could sleep after all.’
