Untouchable Things Read online

  The door to the Lilac Room is clicked closed but there is a light on in the small study next door to it. If he angles himself correctly, he can peep into the small, bright gap where the door snags on the carpet without moving too close. A man glows under the overhead light, almost touching it because he’s standing on his mother’s kitchen stool. The man is his father and he is the one making the horrible noise. He is rubbing himself against the wall, wriggling, grinding his hips like he’s disco dancing. Something tells him not to call out to his father. Something tells him he shouldn’t be watching.

  The next day, with the help of his bunk bed ladder, he discovers the secret black window from the study into the Lilac Room with a little door you can open and a perfect view of the inside of the room. He’s pleased to discover that grown-ups like playing spying games too. In time he learns that this type of window has a name. A peephole.

  He’s seventeen when he hears the noise again. Coming from the Lilac Room, or maybe the study. He’s been waiting for this but he has to be sure. He lies still as a lizard, listening.

  That’s the creaky floorboard. Someone is moving around in that part of the house. He sits up, still foggy from alcohol, sees 2a.m, grabs a dressing gown but not slippers. Bare feet will be quieter. Even in this state he knows where to put his feet to make silent progress across the landing. He has practised many times. He stops to listen outside his parents’ door. Nothing. They’ve been entertaining yet another of his father’s business contacts tonight so he left them to it, sat in a pub, told them he’d probably stay with a friend. The door clicks. He doesn’t need to push it open to know they’re not inside.

  The boy – although not really a boy now, not a man either – looks at his arms, streaked with black hair. He is old enough. The house is silent, slumbering like a bear in winter. But he knows. Each step is placed with exaggerated care as he progresses past the bathroom. Then he hears it, a groan, sickeningly familiar. Another step and he can see round the corner to the triangle of light in the study. The outline of his father’s trousers.

  He springs forward, smashing open the door of the Lilac Room. The dinner guest is tied up and gagged like a hostage on the bed, naked apart from black socks, eyes bulging as if they will burst. He knows this one, has seen him at the house before. Standing over him in black lace is his mother, facing the peephole, holding a whip in both hands, hair wild and tangled as a filthy gypsy. She screams and tries to cover herself but he is too fast, he has her by the throat and the only way to cope with the sight of her is to keep squeezing. The other man, stranded on the bed, writhes and groans in a parody of his recent pleasure. Hands seize his shoulders and he gives one final squeeze before letting go, hurling her towards the window. His father backs away, belt undone, moving to where his wife lies, retching in a heap.

  The boy turns to the room then, tearing pictures from the wall, kicking over furniture. He must destroy it, smash it to purple pulp, or he will have to rip out his own eyes, rip the scene before him into bloody shreds.

  When he opens his eyes again he too is handcuffed to a bed. Three men in white coats stare over their noses at him. He runs his eyes around the unfamiliar room, the curtain rail round the bed, the sink in the corner. His body is bound but his mind is now clear. Now he knows how to play it, now he has the leverage he needs to be free of them forever.

  He smiles at the men. One of them opens a notebook and starts scribbling.

  Scene 1

  “His father?”

  Rebecca can still feel the tremors of her original shock as she watches the group reaction. How, with the blood banging in her ears, she told Dr Cuddly he must have made a mistake knowing suddenly, sickeningly, that he was telling the truth. It didn’t take long to unravel.

  “Oh, he spun you that poor little orphan boy line too? I’m surprised he’s still using it after the truth came out.”

  Anna and Rebecca had barely been able to question him, their roadmap for the session now in tatters. Seth had both a mother and a father, alive by all accounts, or at least he did ten years ago. His father was some big shot in the wine trade. Seth had fallen out with them before leaving school and concocted the orphan story.

  “Maybe he finds it creates sympathy with – young ladies.”

  They left then, stumbled into a jarringly picturesque courtyard. Idling tourists jostled them along King’s Parade.

  “His father is alive? He’s not an orphan?” Michael’s eyes are blazing. Catherine looks like she’s going to faint. They are back in Seth’s living room.

  “That’s what Dr Cuddly said. There’s no reason why he should lie.” Anna’s voice is flat and brittle.

  “The lying, manipulating bastard.” Only Michael seems able to muster a reaction.

  Charles looks ill. “No – surely – he wouldn’t lie to me all these years.” His face is greyish-white, the colour of city snow.

  Anna bites at her thumbnail. “There could be a reason why he’s had to lie.”

  “Like what?” José’s question sounds more hopeful than cynical. Everyone looks at Anna.

  “I don’t know, maybe his parents abused him or something and it was less painful to say they were dead.”

  “Oh, come off it, Anna, you don’t believe that. It was just another game he played with us.”

  “I think Anna could be right. He told me some pretty strange things about his childhood.” Catherine’s voice is small and apologetic, as if it were she who lied.

  “What sort of things?”

  She shrinks further into her seat.

  “I can’t remember exactly.”

  “Sorry, you need to remember exactly.” Anna looks almost as scary as Michael. “If you know anything, you have to tell us.”

  “It was nothing specific – well, he told me he found his parents – having sex on the dining room table,” comes Catherine’s whisper.

  A heartbeat’s pause as the others digest this. Charles is pacing backwards and forwards, muttering under his breath.

  “Right. And?”

  “Well, he implied they did other stuff, but we didn’t talk about it. He did say he’d seen therapists over the years…”

  “Just more speculation then.” Charles shakes his head. Michael stands up and stares out of the French windows, his Roman profile accentuated against the blurring daylight. No one speaks for a while.

  “We’re sitting here in his house, like we always do, but he’s gone and it feels like we don’t really know anything about him.” José’s voice bends in the middle and he puts his head in his hands.

  Rebecca plants her feet on the ground and almost expects to feel it shifting. “Come on, José, that’s not true. Okay, he’s not an orphan but it doesn’t mean that everything else about him is a lie too.”

  It doesn’t come out quite right. Somehow words intended to give Seth the benefit of the doubt throw more shadow on him.

  Anna looks at her. “So what do we do now?”

  “I don’t see that there’s anything we can or should do.” It’s the first time Jake has spoken. “So he hasn’t been entirely straight with us. That’s ’is prerogative. Are you telling me none of you have secrets you ’aven’t told the rest of the group?”

  They must hear her heart thumping into the silence as she pictures herself in the white negligee kneeling over Seth. Then she notices that no one else is contradicting Jake either. She is afraid to look up and meet people’s eyes until the cold snap in Anna’s voice shocks her into doing so.

  “I’m imagining there’s plenty you haven’t told us.” For a second she thinks that Anna’s eyes will be on her. Then she sees them fastened on Jake, the colour of summer sky before a storm. She needs to stop this before everything unravels.

  “Anna.”

  “What? Don’t tell me you haven’t wondered?” She looks round the room. “We may not know everything about each other, but we know almost nothing about him. Do we, Jake?”

  Jake’s face is weirdly still. No winks, no naughty grin.
He spits out his chewing gum and rolls it into a wrapper. Rebecca tastes acid at the back of her throat.

  José glares. “Leave him alone, Anna.”

  Jake holds up a hand. “No, it’s fine. Let’s get this done with. What is it you’d like to know, Anna?”

  The room watches.

  “Nothing to say now, eh?” They are circling each other.

  Anna looks only at Jake. “Far from it. What did you do before you met us?”

  “Before I met you?” He laughs, hard, letting his head roll back for a second. Then the smile is gone. “I had a whole life, Anna, believe it or not. People do exist away from your cosy little bubble, you know. Maybe they don’t go to Sunday School or Boy Scouts, maybe they don’t come from a nice, respectable family unit, maybe they make some mistakes and get into trouble. But it doesn’t mean you can treat them like shit on your shoe.” He laughs again. “Especially when you’re not so whiter-than-white yourself.”

  What do you think he meant by that?

  I don’t know. He said it meaningfully, though. Looking at all of us.

  Michael steps forward and speaks quietly. “Anna shouldn’t have said that. You don’t have to explain yourself to anyone.”

  Jake looks at Michael for a second then releases his breath in a soft hiss. He looks at the wall. “When I met you lot I’d recently got out of prison.”

  Anna folds her arms but Jake ignores her. “I was running a stolen car racket. A young father was killed driving one of my cars. Brake cables were chewed through.”

  Stifled gasps. Even Anna looks like she got more than she bargained for. Jake looks right at her.

  “So there you go. Feel better, knowing you were right?”

  Anna says nothing. Jake smiles but his eyes don’t crinkle. “Do you think I should’ve told you? Do you think you’d have given me a chance if I had?”

  His questions now address the whole room. Rebecca wishes she could push off this precipice and plunge down into the wind, her clenched, hurtling body arcing and twisting through white sound.

  “Of course you wouldn’t.” Jake’s voice drifts into her shutdown. His words are light and singsong. She sees movement and realises that he is walking to the door and other people are getting up.

  He turns on his way out. “Seth did, though. Seth gave me a chance.” For a second she catches his eye and she wants to say something, but the wind is still rushing in her ears and all she does is watch him leave. She does catch his parting shot, though:

  “It’s Jack, by the way.”

  Quite a day for you, Miss Laurence.

  Yes. It’s hard to believe it was only a week ago. So much has happened since.

  Have you seen Jake Etheridge since that night?

  Er, no. No I haven’t. I’ve just realised, by the way, when we reported Seth missing, we said he had no next of kin. Obviously that’s not true.

  Don’t worry, Miss Laurence. We’d figured that one out for ourselves.

  “There you go, then.” Despite its harsh timbre, Anna’s voice wobbles. Rebecca knows she wants contact, reassurance. But no one looks at her. “We needed to know.”

  “Did we?” Charles sounds unusually keyed up. “Seth knew. And it didn’t matter to him.”

  “And that’s just it. Seth’s not here now. Is he?”

  “Exactly what do you mean by that?” Michael speaks slowly, enunciating each word.

  “Well, maybe Seth was a bit too trusting. There was clearly something weird going on. I don’t mean like that. But we all know that after Jake shagged his boss’ wife and lost his job, he never really worked, and he never seemed short of cash. We also know how generous Seth was. Is.”

  Catherine nods. “I do think Seth was helping him quite a bit financially.”

  Michael shrugs. “So? Seth can give his money to whoever he likes. God knows he has enough of it.”

  “It’s not just that. I don’t trust him – Jake, Jack– I mean, look at what he’s just told us. And his whole reaction to Seth’s disappearance has been odd. You know it has.”

  Michael smiles. “I see. So because Jake has a record he’s now – what? Murdered Seth and taken his money?” He looks round the room for backup but most people are looking at their feet.

  Anna raises her voice. “It’s not just a record, Michael. He didn’t get done for nicking a wallet. He basically killed someone. Who knows what he’s capable of?”

  José looks up. “I’m not accusing Jake of anything but it has always felt like we don’t know much about him. And now, after this…”

  Michael surveys the room and snorts. “Well, you’ve got your scapegoat, haven’t you? The big, black villain comes after poor little innocent Seth.” People try to interrupt but he holds up his hand. “I’ll tell you what’s going on here, he’s just not middle class enough for you, is he? Can’t join in discussions about philosophy and art history. How can you trust someone without a degree?”

  Anna gets to her feet. “Don’t be so fucking ridiculous, Michael.”

  He continues as if he hasn’t heard, pacing in front of the fireplace. “You turn nasty insinuations on Jake when your darling Seth has lied to us and toyed with us and fucked off without a word. It’s not Jake who’s phoney. It’s Seth. He’s played us and he’s still doing it now. Can’t you see that?” He bellows the last bit and Rebecca is back at school, chided in class.

  Suddenly he turns and addresses them full on. “Have you ever wondered what really happened last year? Now that we know he lies? Or is that all forgotten in favour of this new, perfect version of Seth?”

  Rebecca frowns and looks at the others. What is he talking about? She’s glued to her seat, doesn’t dare to ask. She sees alarm on the faces around her.

  Anna moves towards him. “Michael!” Charles and José are on their feet too.

  “Oh, don’t want to get that one out at the moment, right?”

  “Michael, please!” Everyone stares as Catherine comes towards him. “This is not going to help.”

  “Fine, have it your way. Your dirty secret is safe with me.”

  She flinches like she’s been hit.

  Could you wait one moment, Miss Laurence, while I note this down? Thank you. Do you know what Mr Stanley was referring to when he said, ‘what happened last year’?

  Not exactly. Something before I met them all. They said it was nothing. Just Michael over-dramatising. When I pressed them, Anna said Seth had got into a fight in a bar one evening and then the police had shown up and they’d played the whole thing down. No one was hurt so no big deal.

  A fight? From what I know about Mr Gardner, that doesn’t sound like his style. No one else has mentioned it.

  I’m sorry, I can’t tell you any more.

  Of course, carry on, Miss Laurence.

  Michael still holds the floor, waving his hands by the fire no one has bothered to light. He’s on one now. “Look at us. We’re just like stupid little lapdogs still meeting in his house and drinking his wonderful fucking wine like he’s going to walk through the door any minute. Well, he’s not. He’s not coming back. Get over it!”

  No one says a word. Catherine might be crying. Rebecca knows Michael is right, she does expect Seth to walk back in any minute, they all probably do, and he’ll get out his whisky and an explanation to satisfy them, make them laugh even. But what if he doesn’t come, what if he never comes?

  She looks around for something to hold onto but all she sees is a disintegrating cluster of friends without the glue to keep them together.

  Michael slams the door as he leaves. Charles offers to drive Catherine home. Anna, José and Rebecca kiss each other at Notting Hill Tube barriers and say they’ll talk tomorrow. Hot, viscous air floods the train, flinging Rebecca’s hair over her eyes. She gets off one stop early and walks through the windless night.

  Scene 2

  Catherine suspects Charles would like to be asked in but she longs for the cool greeting of her empty flat. It is the only thing that can soothe her. Wo
rk, friends, even talking to the man in the corner shop strains her mind to breaking point, or at least a migraine. But here, at home, she doesn’t have to pretend. Here she is free to run over the horror of it all endlessly, paraphrase the same old questions. There are new questions now. There must be a reason for his deception. His parents must have hurt him. She aches with the not knowing.

  She closes the door on Charles and pushes scraggy, pallid limbs into summer-weight pyjamas her mother bought her for Christmas. She’s withering like a plant without sunlight. Her only scraps of sustenance are tucked away in memory and fantasy. She lies down under her pastel-striped duvet knowing she won’t sleep for some time. It is her time with Seth. She rolls onto her left side and picks up the fantasy easily from where she left it yesterday. In two minutes he is in her lounge, buried in her arms. He has come to her because he knows no one else can help him. He is a broken toy that she must lovingly mend. She holds him as he opens up to her, tells her things he has never shared with anyone else. She strokes his face as he clings to her. He cannot face the others, begs her not to tell them where he is. She is all he needs. She is his angel.

  Scene 3

  It must have been the breeze that took her back so vividly, almost three years in a whoosh of chilly air. A June breeze that belonged in early autumn, in September ’94 to be specific, bringing people to life as she and José and Seth walked briskly along the Cromwell Road looking for the Institut Français. It was Seth’s idea, of course, just like everything else was Seth’s idea. He had decided he wanted to improve his French and took José along for backup. ‘You’re a continental, aren’t you? You’re bound to speak good French already.’

  Anna got wind of the plan and decided to tag along. Partly for a laugh and partly…