Exceptat Christmas, when he came blazing forth as Cinderella’sstepmother, the Widow Twanky, or a disturbingly handsome UglySister.Pantomime was British, traditional, and his son a jollygood sport for taking part in the fun.If it ever occurred to SirWilliam that the pantomime dame was Britain’s last remaining traceof revered, societally condoned transvestitism, he gave nosign.
Lauriehadn’t tried to join any of the dozens of drama societies lookingfor members at Oxford.He had felt as if he would be exposed as afraud there, as he was afraid he was every day in the lecture hallsand his tutors’ studies.He let himself think less and less aboutthe theatre.It had been okay for a schoolboy to mess around there,but now he was working toward a career—which, however little he hadhad to do with its choosing, must someday lead him out of hisfather’s house and into a life of his own.Mustn’t it…?
So hetried.He set aside his disinclination and did his very best tolearn from poor young Sanderson, who, if nervous, was sincere andnot unkind.By the end of each day, tutor and student wereinvariably in such a state of frustration with themselves and oneanother that the sound of the clock ringing four in the halldownstairs came like a clarion of freedom.
Chapter Three
Fouro’clock, any moment now.Laurie stared at the clock on thestudy-room wall, willing its second hand to make that last climb,until his eyes stung.Sanderson, absorbed in a text on abstractmathematics with the same chuckling thoroughness another man mighthave brought to a juicy porn magazine, seemed unaware of the time.Laurie blinked; he’d misjudged the clock, and had another minute togo.He restrained a gigantic, whole-body twitch, wondering why hismistake had rendered the last minute scarcely bearable.He drew adeep, silent breath, set himself to count the dust motes floatingin a wedge of sunlight between his desk and the tutor’s.It waslast light, bloodred and tarnished, hardly visible against theroom’s overhead neon.Another breath, unconsciously registering thescent of beeswax from the endlessly polished oldfloorboards…
Theclock issued its first gentle chime.Sanderson didn’t appear tonotice until Laurie’s irrepressible restive movement knocked hisgeometry set to the floor in a rattle of plastic and metal.“Oh,four o’clock already?”Sanderson said, a note of regret in hisvoice that couldn’t possibly have been authentic from anyone buthim.“Well, off you go, Laurence, old fellow.I’ll stay here andfinish this chapter, if you don’t mind.”
“God, no.”Laurie gathered up the fallen instruments, stabbinghimself in the palm with the compass point without a flinch,dumping them randomly back into their box.“Knock yourself out,Sandy.I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Admittedly, as bitterly as he resented them, the exercisesSanderson set for him were his only chance of redeeming today’sstupidity and rescuing him from tomorrow’s.But first, freedom.Hismind restored to him for a few hours before he had to sit down andtackle the exercises.A few hours in which he could retire to histop-floor room and think about Sasha.Today he wouldn’t even havehis sister on his hands, and much as he welcomed her faithfulpresence in the study room, he was glad.Clara had a bruisingsocial schedule in the weeks running up to Christmas, as one afterthe other of her friends threw parties of increasing andcompetitive magnificence.Laurie, jogging quietly down thicklycarpeted stairs to make himself a sandwich, reflected withamusement that she’d be exhausted after this one.The nine-year-oldLady Sophie of Ravenscliffe had no doubt pulled out all the stops,and Sir William, unashamed to schmooze those greater than himself,even at a little girls’ tea party, had volunteered, with rarepaternal condescension, to escort her.He would be hip-deep in portwith Lord Ravenscliffe for hours.Laurie’s mother was out too, sofor once Laurie had the house to himself barring staff, whobothered him as seldom as he tried to bother them.
God, hecould lie down on his bed and think of Sasha.The prospect of thiswas such a relief that Laurie’s breath caught in his throat, and hepaused on the landing, clamping both hands tight to the carvedbanister while the rush of excitement passed through him.His ownneed astonished him.What were the chances of them ever meetingagain?Sasha had said it.They did not live in the same world, andLaurie’s efforts to travel between the two had put Sasha in danger,made his already marginal existence more perilous and difficultstill.Sasha himself had bidden him not to try again.
But even if Laurie had been forbidden to seek him out, hismind could create for him a thousand scenarios where no suchrestrictions applied.He could run into Sasha by chance in Regent’sPark and walk with him silently into a grove of trees whosebranches closed around them in tender concealment.He could marchinto the shantytown under the bridge with a pistol, hold Len atgunpoint, and demand that Sasha be released from this life ofdegradation—even though he knew Len had nothing to do with it.Hecould command Sasha leave behind the scuttling shamefacedbusinessmen who came slumming it down here for their treats, andcome with Laurie to a place unspecified but safe and beautiful,where Sasha would stand before him, smiling, dark eyes glowing, andsilently undress.Once, to Laurie’s utter shame, in thefantasyhewas thebusinessman, propped against the pillar, lost in bliss while Sashasucked him off.Laurie didn’t even know what that would feellike—from another boy or from a girl.His entire sexual experiencein his nineteen years of life amounted to a tumble with adebutante, randy and willing, if too drunk to know who he was nexttime she saw him.But his imagination was good.Oh, a couple ofhours to himself and he could find his way almost anywhere andconjure Sasha there to join him.
A rippleof laughter rose up from the ground floor.Laurie jumped as ifcaught in the act he’d been planning.Clara and Sir William musthave come home early.Stifling a sigh, he continued on his routedownstairs.He might as well let his presence be known.She’d seekhim out anyway, and, if he couldn’t have his mind-created grove,his armed rescue mission and seamy encounter beneath the bridge,her droll, jaded account of the party would be good for him, betterprobably than his own company.Eight going on thirty-eight, hisClara.
The doorto the living room was open.Landing silently in stockinged feetfrom his customary vault of the banisters, Laurie froze.His fatherwas sitting in one of the big armchairs, Clara on his lap.Laurieracked his brains for the last time the old man had touched her.Hetended not to.His rages—and, young as she was, Clara was notimmune to them—seldom culminated in violence.As for carrying,hugging, and all the benign contact of parenthood, the girl had hermother for that, as well as Laurie and a small team of domesticstaff.
Shelooked happy enough now, if a bit startled.Sir William was gentlyjouncing her, and whatever he was saying to her was making herlaugh.He was bright red in the face, perspiring slightly.Something in the position of his hand on her skinny little backmade Laurie go as cold as death.He broke paralysis and continuedacross the hallway, far enough to open the door to the library.Itgave its characteristic squeak.Clara spun around and jumped offthe old man’s knee, her face lighting up.“Laurie!”
He putout a hand to her.No, she wasn’t going on thirty-eight.She hadher few sweet adult ways, but she was as clear as daylight, barelyout of babyhood, bright and untouched.Laurie calmly drew her tohis side.He said to his father, “Good evening, sir,” and remainedthere in the doorway to the library, motionless, staring at him.Sir William got to his feet.For a moment he seemed to struggle forhis usual bluster, and Laurie wished he would.Wished he woulddemand what his son was doing, hanging about like a mooncalf in thehallway.Wished he would look like anything other than a man caughtwith bloody red hands.“She’s got to do some of her Christmasholiday homework,” Laurie said.He added, conscious of his ghost ofa smile, “So do I.We’ll see you later.”
Laurietook her into the study and sat with her while she worked throughher exercises.They were just English grammar, and even Lauriecould help her with those, though he conscientiously tried to showher only her own route to the answers, not the answers themselves.She was completely undisturbed, chattering away to him about theparty between her efforts to distinguish a noun from a pastparticiple.Laurie listened as best he could, both hands knotted onthe desk.In his mind, two scenes were playing themselves out.Inthe first, a boy who looked just like him but whose soul wasuntainted came trotting down the stairs of the big old house andsaw his father playing with his little sister, smiled at them both,and passed on.In the second, a different version of the boy,marred but unswervingly brave, took Clara and went straight to thepolice, to social services, because no matter how manycommissioners’ boards Sir William Fitzroy headed up, no matter ifhe had half the Met in his pocket, there was justice in the world,unassailable justice and protection.
But Laurie was neither of these, and his world was what itwas.When Clara had finished her homework, he suggested to her asandwich supper with Mrs.Gibson, and Clara, never one to pass upan escape from the usual dreary family dinner, beamed at him inacquiescence.He took her down to the kitchen, and once she wassettled chattering to Charlie at the old pine table where he toohad hidden out from so much grim formality over the years, he drewthe old housekeeper aside.“Gibson, I don’t want Clara left alone.”He shivered.That wouldn’t bloody do it.The child wasn’talonewith her father.“Do you know when Lady Fitzroy’s due home?”
Gibsonwiped her hands on her apron and surveyed the young man she hadstriven to look after since he was old enough to walk.“Not untilmorning, I believe, sir.She’s staying with her sister over inKensington.Why, Master Laurie, you look like a snake’s bitten you.What on earth’s the matter?”
“Nothing.That is…I think he might be drinking again.Myfather.”
“Oh.”Gibson looked down.There had been a bad few years whenSir William had added alcohol to his natural deficiencies ofcharacter—but had reined himself in rather than lose his footholdamong his peers on his various boards and commissions.“Oh, dear.Are you sure?”
Laurieswallowed.He wasn’t sure of anything.“No.But…I can’t take anychances.I tell you what.Is Hannah at home for Christmas?”Hannah,the youngest daughter of local family friends, had been Clara’spreferred babysitter since early childhood and still welcomed thechance to earn a few easy, enjoyable quid with her little chargewhen Laurie wasn’t around.
“Yes, sir, as far as I know.”
“Send Charlie to fetch her, would you?It would be good if shecould stay over for a couple of days.”
“Yes, of course.But…aren’t you going to be home, MasterLaurie?”
“Yes.I will, most of the time.I want somebody who can staywith her overnight, though, sleep in her room, and if I do have togo out…I just want her to have a companion.Do you understand?”Gibson, who plainly wished she did not, nodded sadly.“Tell Hannahshe’s been having nightmares.I’ll square it with my mother and SirWilliam.And I’ll pay.”
* **
Laurie waited until Hannah had arrived, bright-eyed andflushed with the cold, and was installed with the delighted Clarain the games room, laughing and shrieking overHigh School Musical 3or whateversimilar god-awful DVD the child seemed able to watch withundiminished joy as often as she got the chance.He sat with themthrough the trailers, then as soon as the male lead’s moony faceappeared, retreated to the library, waving athanks, but no thanksat theirefforts to make him stay.He moved Clara’s books from the table,packed them neatly into her satchel, and got out his own.Dutifullyhe worked through Sanderson’s elaborate stratagem for making himunderstand and apply the pi concept, as opposed to reciting itsvalue in the manner of a doomed Wagnerian hero orValkyrie.
He leftthe library door open but saw no more of his father.Probably hehad gone out to dinner and his club if his wife was not cominghome.Laurie tried to concentrate on his work and the happy noiseseeping out from the games room.At the proper hour for aneight-year-old’s bedtime, the well-trained Hannah emerged withClara in tow, and he bade them both a casual good night.Once theywere gone, he tried not to let every creak in the floors above,every unidentifiable sound, become the bogeyman.Tried not to lapseinto infantile fears.His father had seldom laid a hand on him—andnever in that way—but his looming, angry bulk, especially whenstinking of scotch, had been enough to place the fear of God inLaurie’s heart, a fear he was still too young and trapped to placein context and dismiss.
Andthere was another shadow self in Laurie’s head, one even lessworthy than the equivocator who had gone down to the kitchens andtried to arrange some kind of inadequate shield for his sister.That one, when the house was quiet, folded up his books, wentupstairs, and, creeping into his mother’s bedroom, found by touchin the street-lit darkness the drawer where she kept her pills.Temazepam, in Laurie’s experience, produced a strongly amnesiaceffect.Three or four of them would not only ensure he slept, butmight also wipe his mind clear of what he’d seen this afternoon.Hannah’s presence in the house might puzzle him, but he’d find away around it.
He washalfway up the vast carved staircase before he knew he had moved.God, the temptation was strong!Laurie, who normally did his bestnot to think of how often he had fallen back on this escape route,now made himself count the times.Over school holidays, maybe onceor twice a month, when the rows had been bad or his fear of his ownnightmares strong enough to keep him from sleeping at all.Had shenever noticed her supplies were going down?Possibly not—she seemedto have several prescriptions from different doctors.
Pills for his mother, booze for his dad.Laurie knew, againfrom theGuardian,that children of substance-abusing households were much more likelythan average to become addicts themselves.That was nice, hethought.If he didn’t, it was a bit of a victory, kicking thetrend, and if he did—well, it was on the cards, wasn’t it?Notentirely his fault.
