The old man at last.Hannah, who in her whole life had neverbeen called anything less affectionate thandarling, burst into tears and fledfor the door.Laurie put out one hand and caught her by the wristas gently as he could.“No,” he said softly.“No, stay for asecond.I’m very sorry, Hannah.Please just take Clara down to Mrs.Gibson; then you go straight home.Okay?”
Sir William lurched to his feet.He topped six and a half feetwhen he stood erect, and the drink Laurie could smell on himswelled him out too.No, he’d never laid a hand on his son.He’dnever had to.Something in Laurie still believed he would not.Hannah, shaking and sobbing, was nevertheless holding out her armsfor the little girl, and Laurie handed her over blindly, keepinghis eyes fixed on the old man.He wasn’t sure what their lockedgaze indicated, but he tried to make his part of ityou’ll have to go through me.
“You don’t order the staff in this house, boy.You don’t tellmy daughter what to do.”
That lowgrowl.Laurie had heard it all his life and obeyed.It still hadpower to command him now, and a sudden flare of rage at his ownweakness stiffened his spine.Aware that he had stepped in front ofClara and Hannah to shield them, he waited till the dining roomdoor opened and closed.“If you treated her like a daughter,” hesaid coldly, “I might still respect that.”He paused.His throathad gone dry and his palms correspondingly damp, but it stillwasn’t fear.“You’d better let Sandy go too, unless you want him tohear the details.”
The oldman went gray beneath the mottled purple that had risen in hischeeks.Laurie held his gaze mercilessly, daring him to try tobluff it out.To try to misunderstand.But after a moment he swungaround on poor Sanderson, who flinched so hard he nearly went backover out of his chair.“You,” he grunted.“Don’t expect a bloodyreference.Get out.”
I’ll give you a reference, Lauriewanted to tell him.Not your fault if youthought your gypsy pupil was a prince.ButSanderson was a fish-pale flash, squeezing past the heavy diningfurniture and making for the door.All Laurie could do was open itfor him to aid his escape.
Peripherally he saw his mother was on her feet too, onediamond-glittered hand pressed to the surface of the table as ifshe could barely support herself.Pity and anger went throughhim.
“No, Ma,” he said reluctantly.“You have to hear this.Sitdown.”
“Damn right she has to hear it.”Sir William was getting overhis fright.Laurie could read it in the restored redness of hisface.Laurie had been lucky, he supposed, to get him off balanceeven for a second—but the room was clear now, the only people leftin it the ones who should be there.“She needs to hear how her sondragged a grubby gyppo tinker into her house and passed him off assome kind of diplomat’s son to get Sanderson to teachhim.”
Lauriedidn’t think his mother was too interested.His rare clashes withSir William had always terrified her, and she was herself so quiet,so restrained, that Laurie had usually restrained himself for hersake, bent his head into the storm of the old man’s rage so that atleast only one person was shouting.She had not sat back down.Abruptly compassion won out in Laurie.If he tried to pin her downhere, who would it be for?Clara, whose protection had been out ofthose frail, glittering hands for years—or for himself, because heburned to shove into her face all the realities she had beenavoiding?He could not keep her here, looking so fragile andsick.
“Ma,” he whispered and, when she did not budge from her frozenhalf stance, shook his head and went to her.“Come on,” he said,taking her arm.“Go and find Clara and Gibson.That’s all I wantedto say to you anyway.Make sure Gibson’s with her.Don’t let her beleft alone.Not with him.”He wondered if he would be able to gether to the door with any dignity; she was leaning on him as if shewould fall, and the old man, who had twitched at his last words,was beginning a nightmare-slow lumber toward them.But after a fewfaltering steps, she broke from him, pushed away with a whimper,and staggered out faster than Sanderson had done.
Laurieturned to face his father.He knew that a time came, for some youngmen, when they understood their fear of a brutal parent washollow—just a habit, a memory, a lingering trace of childhood—whenthey understood they were stronger and one good punch would do thetrick, send the shadow monster crumbling to dust.
Reedslender, much shorter, he knew this epiphany could not be his.Nevertheless he stood still.He said very clearly, watching SirWilliam devour the space between them, “Yes, I let the gyppo tinkerin, sir.Not only that, but I’m fucking him.I lovehim.”
Andstill the first blow came as a surprise.Perhaps some remnant oftrust had stayed with Laurie after all.He was down on his knees,staring at the elegant claw foot of one of the table’s centrallegs.He was not certain how he’d got there—had briefly seen hisfather move, and then the air had left his lungs.One side of hisrib cage was dully exploding.He coughed and retched and heard thebreath come back into him in a kind of sucking groan he could notcontrol.He had a moment in which to reflect that maybe this wasthe price he paid for never having received a mild slap or a cufffrom the old man.That, having finally broken his restraints, hisfather was going to jump the preliminaries and kill him.
And yetstill he wasn’t afraid.He had to get up; that was all.His fathersaid, close and hot against his ear, “You perverted littlebastard.”But it hardly mattered to Laurie.The old man wasdragging him onto his feet, an assistance he couldn’t haveexpected.He tried to twist around.The vast grip upon hisshoulders tightened.Sasha, Laurie thought, the word in his mindlike a cry, and he wondered if Sasha knew how completely he lovedhim.Sasha.It stayed with him as his father shook him like a rat,as his brow connected with the solid back of one of the preciousold chairs, then the table’s edge.He took it with him, deep intothe dark.
* **
CurzonStreet.About eight at night, Laurie guessed, from the patterns ofthe crowd milling past him.Most of them dressed for the evening,on their way to restaurants or the opera.In this well-heeledbackwater, there were a lot of lovely winter clothes, long swishingcoats, and sumptuous collars.Laurie, shivering, reached to turn uphis own, and found it wasn’t there.
He wasstanding at the bus stop in his shirtsleeves.Drawing a deepbreath—or trying to; there was a knot of pain in his side thattightened when he inhaled—he tried to fill in the gap in his mindbetween hitting the dining room floor and being here.He could,when he made the effort, though it was like looking through water.He’d opened his eyes, detachedly surprised that he had lived to doso.The dining room had been empty.He had lain, staring into thecathedral forest of chair and table legs, until his eyes had stungfrom want of blinking.The door had been open.Through it camevoices—raised and agitated, too distant for identification.All butone, anyway.Female, strident.Laurie, who had never heard Mrs.Gibson shout before in his whole life, had listened in fascinationwhile she dealt out this appalling rating to whoever had deservedit.Then the voices had died and other sounds began to rise.Slamming doors, restless footsteps.
Footsteps getting closer.Laurie had struggled to his feet.He had done this in stages, he remembered—hands and knees, then agrip on the edge of the table, then one last shove upright sopainful he had almost passed out again and had only stayed uprightby slipping into the skin of a man in a play with one mission—toget out of this prison house or die, and that was how he had losttrack of reality, entered the amnesiac fog.
It hadworked, though.Laurie sometimes wondered if there was anything hecouldn’t do if he could just persuade himself he was playing therole of someone capable of doing it for him.The absurdity of thismade him briefly shake with laughter, tugging at his ribs, turningheads to look at him.He supposed he was conspicuous enough anyway.The hero of this most recent drama hadn’t had the sense to stop fora jacket, money, or Tube fare card.He felt in his pockets forchange, and there was a handful, but nowhere near enough to takehim out across the city.
Hecouldn’t go back.Leaning against the bus shelter’s smeared acrylicwall, Laurie reflected that this was how it had been for Sasha, howit still was for all the thousands of others caught up in thenight.No warmth, no cash, and no means of getting either.Hesubsided onto the little plastic ledge that served as a seat butdidn’t allow you to get too comfortable and drop off there, anicety of design he had never noticed till now.Christ, his headhurt.He could taste salt.When he raised his hand to dab at hismouth, it came away bloody.He stared at it dully.
Headlights strafed the shelter.At first Laurie paid no heed.The street was busy, buses and taxis crossing and recrossing oneanother in the road ahead.A door clicked with a familiar sound,and he got his head up.He blinked.His father’s driver, out ofuniform, hair rumpled, was standing on the pavement beside theDaimler.“Oh, thank God,” Charlie said.“I’ve been driving aroundthe streets.Come here, son.Come on with me.”
So hissituation bore no resemblance to that of the homeless thousands,Laurie corrected himself as Charlie helped him move, ashamed ofhaving exaggerated his own little earthquake to that extent.He satin a warm car.Someone—not family; Laurie was beginning tounderstand how very little family had to do with it—had givenenough of a damn to come out and find him.Charlie was digging inhis pockets.He produced a large white handkerchief and switchedthe map light on so that the Daimler lit up with a golden glow.“Here,” he said.“Let’s have a look at you.”
No, notfamily.Laurie remembered now a thousand times when this man orMrs.Gibson or one of the other household staff out in Suffolk hadcome running after him, to pick him up when he fell over, rippedhis eight-year-old knees to shreds once again on the gravel, orlost control of the half-broken horse his father had thought wassuch a good joke to give him.Charlie, frowning so hard in the maplight Laurie thought his face would crack, was reaching for himnow, beginning to dab gingerly at his mouth.
“It’s okay, Charlie,” he said, managing a smile, taking thehandkerchief from him.“I’ll do that.I…I hate to ask this, but canyou lend me a few quid?I’ve come out without any money,and…there’s somewhere I want to go.”
Charliestared at him.“You’re asking your own bloody chauffeur for busfare?There’s only one place you’re going, young man—”
“Oh, Charlie.Not home.”
“No.No, son.Mrs.Gibson and me, and the others, there’s noneof us can bear to stay there anymore.Gibson’s already givennotice, and…well, I’m taking you to the hospital, that’s all, andwe’ll see what happens from there.”Frowning even more grimly thanbefore, Charlie leaned to start the engine.“I never thought I’dlive to see the day.”
Gibson.Laurie stared at himself inthe visor mirror.The right side of his face was alien to him, thewrong shape.When he touched it, a strange, sick pain went throughhim.Oh, God.Charlie, tell her not toleave.But he could hardly beg anyone elseto stay in the hell he himself was running from, could he?TheDaimler was purring, beginning its stately departure.“Charlie.Have I ever…given you an order?”
Charlieglanced at him.To Laurie’s dismay, there were tears on his face.“No, sir,” he said.“You’ve always been a good lad.Kind andpolite.”
