The Ties That Bind (13 page)

The screen was crowded with moving images of curls and freckles, bouncing off a satellite with only a second’s delay. His little nieces and nephews took for granted the science-fiction phenomenon of a video link with their uncle on the other side of the world and even his parents had been quick to acclimatise to the technology.

‘How’s the new place?’ asked his father, Jamie. Luke picked up the computer and gave them a guided tour of the cottage. His parents squinted doubtfully into the webcam.

‘You know we’ve kept your old room,’ said his mother. ‘You can always come home if you’ve fallen on hard times.’ He had never got used to hearing her refer to Australia as home in her broad Leeds accent.

‘I’m doing OK,’ he said. ‘Got some work lined up. Maybe a new book.’

The word ‘book’ deepened the furrow in his father’s forehead. ‘Well, you know there’s always a job with me and your brothers,’ he said. His sister-in-law, heavily pregnant in the background, urged him to visit before the baby she was carrying started college.

Luke said goodbye and closed the laptop. Talking to his family, especially en masse like that, always left him with a melancholy that missing them alone could not account for. It was the same feeling he had known with Jem of being loved but not understood. They wanted him to be happy but could never be made to understand that he would never find fulfilment on their terms. They could never grasp that he could not thrive, as they did, in the beach-and-barbeque culture of Sydney. The narrow streets and grey skies, the old photographs and obscure books where he found his inspiration they saw as evidence of deep unhappiness. They worried constantly about the dark, introspective side of his character. He would never make them see the romance of the deserted seaside town the day after summer and he only made himself miserable when he tried to explain it. Luke’s parents had not blinked when he had told them he was gay, but he wasn’t sure they had ever quite recovered from the blow of learning that their son was a writer.

Chapter 19

Luke rounded off a long day’s research with a trip to the foot of the old West Pier. He could no longer look at it without wishing he had walked its boards before fire razed the causeway between the shore and the structure. There was still a sign up that advertised the hard-hat tours you had been able to take right up until a decade ago. He took off his glasses and tried to sketch over the wavy outline before him: the Pier’s old stilts and balustrades, its frilly ironwork, its curved dance hall and its ropes of lights.

The sound of a ringing mobile shattered his reverie. A number with a Leeds code. It wasn’t the flat or the Gilchrist Fonseca switchboard, but what was to stop Jem using a public telephone, or borrowing the landline in a bar or restaurant? He rejected the call. Instead of ringing again, the caller left a voicemail, but didn’t call back. Luke tried to ignore it but the departure from Jem’s usual MO intrigued him and even gave him hope. Could it be that he was calling to apologise? Perhaps, in the silence of yesterday, he’d had time to reflect on the impossible pressure he’d put on Luke and begun to understand why he had had to leave. Friendship was too high an ambition, but if they could salvage some kind of peace, if the threats and abuse would end, Luke would accept that, he would
love
that. A wave crashed at his feet and he jumped out of the way, jolted into the opposite point of view. The chances were that Jem was only calling to wail and threaten and beg some more. There was only one way to find out.

He pressed the voicemail button and put the phone to his ear. The echoing voice after the beep was refined like Jem’s, but it was female.

‘Luke, it’s Serena Gilchrist, Jerry’s wife.’ The ensuing pause was just long enough for Luke to think, Jerry? She called him
Jerry
? He kept
that
to himself. ‘Shit, sorry, I’m not doing this very well. Look, the main thing is that he’s fine, so just ignore the letter, they got to him in time. I suppose you’ll want to know the details, so you might as well ring me back. I’m sure my number’s come up on your display.’

Who had got to him in time? What letter? He dragged his feet through pebbles, up the sea-stairs of drifted shingle and onto the easy concrete of the esplanade. With a quickening sense of unease, he jogged the rest of the short way home, weaving through cyclists and promenaders. Once through the door, he dropped breathlessly to the mat, where he found a stiff envelope hidden among the pile of takeaway menus that he’d kicked to one side on leaving the house. The writing was Jem’s – how the
fucking hell
had he got the address? – and the envelope was postmarked Leeds.

‘Oh, Jem, what have you done?’ said Luke as he tore at the seal. The letter was on the distinctive pale green Gilchrist Fonseca headed notepaper, but handwritten and undated. He read it in one glance.

Darling Luke

I can’t go on this way. The thought of another day without you makes me want to die. I honestly have no choice but to end it like this. I hope you understand, and understand the responsibility you bear. This way I hope to enfold you in my loneliness, for ever.

Hurts, doesn’t it?

All love always (although for ever is short)

Jem

The stupid, overdramatic, manipulative twat. The poor, heartbroken, lonely darling. Horror, guilt and anger whirlpooled inside Luke. He lit a cigarette and waited for the emotions to compartmentalise themselves.

Serena answered his call on the first ring.

‘Luke, thank God,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Thanks for calling me back. Sorry if I was a bit manic on the phone. I take it you’ve seen his note?’

‘How did he know where to send it?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Serena impatiently. ‘That’s hardly the most pressing thing, is it?’ Perhaps not to her. He must have carried out his threat to hire someone to find him. Typical Jem, even throw money at the problem of where to address his suicide note.

‘What
happened
?’ Luke was already mentally packing a bag and wondering if he’d make it to London in time for a connection to Leeds.

‘He slit his wrists in a nightclub toilet last night.
Your
sort of nightclub. He’s going to survive. He’d only been there for a few minutes when they called the paramedics. He’s in hospital. They had to sedate him but he’s going to be all right. Physically, anyway.’

‘Do you want me to come up?’ he said.

She gave an indignant snort. ‘You must be joking. I’m only calling you because Jerry begged me to let you know he was OK. It’s your fault he’s in hospital in the first place.’

‘That’s a bit harsh—’

‘Is it? Is it really? It’s only since he met
you
that he got all dramatic, isn’t it? I mean, would he have ended up in some squalid little club if he’d left me for another
woman
?’

She might be upset, but Luke wasn’t going to let her get away with that.

‘He’d already left you when he met me, Serena. He’s
gay
.’

She made no reply; he was left listening to the whirr of Caleb’s electric saw through the party wall and he wondered if the line had gone dead. When Serena spoke again, her voice had lost its attack.

‘I know I’m not his next of kin any more but he still had me down as his emergency contact. That’s got to mean something, hasn’t it? Please let
me
deal with this, Luke.
Please
.’

He felt sorry for her then, so desperate and deluded that she would seize this chance to get her claws back into him.

‘You know what? You’re welcome to him.’ It came out harsher than he had intended. He thought he heard her start to cry, then she ended the call.

Luke looked for a long time at his own clean wrists, snaked by purple veins, so horribly close to the surface. He felt a pang of responsibility and called Viggo for a second opinion.

‘
No
!’ shrieked Viggo. ‘
Everyone
’s been talking about it, but I didn’t know it was
him
. Bloody hell! I can’t say I’m surprised. The last time I spoke to him—’

‘Hang on, hang on. You saw him
again
?’

‘Luke, he’s out the whole time now. He’s worse than
me
. Is he going to be all right?’

‘Apparently,’ said Luke. ‘Sounds like it was a cry for help rather than a serious attempt. Be honest. Do you think I should come up, even though Serena says I shouldn’t?’

‘I don’t know, Luke. I mean if his ex-wife wants to look after him then I’d be inclined to let her. And if you run back to Leeds whenever he does something like that, then what sort of message does that send out? He’s never going to move on, is he? All it shows him is that that’s the way for him to get you back under his control.’

‘Thanks Vig. That’s just what I needed to hear.’ It was true. What was the point in a clean break if you returned to muddy the waters yourself?

‘The funny thing is, I thought he
was
getting over you,’ said Viggo.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Luke suddenly wanted to ask if Jem had been with other people, even though he knew that to renounce his relationship with Jem was also to relinquish certain rights and curiosities.

‘Oh, nothing,’ said Viggo distractedly. A shrill voice called his name in the background. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go, but before I do, Aminah’s doing a PA at some club in Brighton in a few weeks and there’s a big gang of us going, so make sure you get Char to get some carers in or whatever it is she needs to do to leave the house.’

A night out, crap music, mindless small-talk with the shallow fools of Aminah’s entourage; Luke was already looking forward to it.

‘Can’t wait,’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure she comes out even if I have to pay for the nurse myself.’

Chapter 20

As the night wore on, Luke grew more and more uncomfortable, on high alert for Jem’s finger on the doorbell, for his boot forcing the front door. Why hadn’t he told Serena that he was moving on from Temperance Place? That he was leaving Brighton?

In the outhouse he found an old chair leg and kept it by his bedside, but it brought little security. He, who had always been able to sleep through the circadian sounds of a city, now found that every noise had him upright and panting in bed: Caleb closing his front door in the morning, the revving of an engine, a fox knocking over a bin; all had him awake, adrenalised and groping for the weapon.

His anxiety eventually blunted enough to let him fall asleep but not enough to keep him that way; when a cat leaped up onto his windowsill he actually screamed. He sat up and watched the animal’s shadow, thrown by the moonlight, crawl across his bedclothes. This, then, was what real fear, physical threat, felt like. Was this how Joss Grand’s victims must have felt?

He lay back down, hand curled around his makeshift cudgel, on a bed that offered all the comfort of a razor blade and forced himself not to rise until it was fully light outside.

Breakfast was, unwisely, a cup of black coffee. He could not relax until he knew where Jem was,
exactly
where he was. If only he could put some kind of tracker on him, some microchip that would reassure him of Jem’s whereabouts, via a little flashing dot on a computer, an early warning system. He was aware of the irony that Jem had probably wished the same thing about him when they were together, although for the opposite reason.

He called Leeds General hospital, asking to speak to Mr Gilchrist, but hung up as soon as the call was transferred. Two hours later, he found himself doing it again. And then again, ninety minutes after that: he could not help himself. At least if Luke could pinpoint Jem’s whereabouts to a hospital ward in Leeds, he might relax and even try to sleep for a few hours. He had never been at the mercy of such a compulsion before. It was a taste of Jem’s state of mind, and it was hellish.

It couldn’t last for ever. On Wednesday morning the hospital told him that Jem had been discharged. Fear was his gut reaction but then he realised the significance of the day: he had never known Jem to miss his firm’s mid-week conference. Withholding his number, disguising his voice and feeling faintly disgusted with himself, he dialled the company switchboard and asked to be put through, intending to hang up once Jem’s presence at his desk was confirmed. The receptionist told him that Mr Gilchrist was taking some time away from the office, and offered to put him through to his PA. Immediately Luke was convinced that Jem was behind the wheel of his car, foot to the floor, speeding down the M1 towards Brighton.

He felt a constriction in his chest. There was only one person he could think of who might be able to help him breathe again. He pushed the number he had stored in his phone, only realising that Jem might actually be with her as the connection was made.

‘Hi, Luke,’ said Serena and then, to his astonishment, ‘I’m glad you called.’ She sounded completely different to the last time they had spoken; it was the same voice, but tired and flat, wrung dry of bitterness.

‘Is he with you now?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m on my own at home.’ He imagined her taking her phone from room to empty room.

‘Then where is he?’ he asked. Serena picked up on the terror in his voice and the reason for it.

‘Hey, don’t worry,’ she soothed. ‘You won’t be seeing him again for a while.’

‘Why, where’s he gone?’

‘He’s in rehab.’

After the initial flush of relief, Luke was staggered. ‘
Rehab
? You’re locking him in with a bunch of junkies for being
gay
?’

‘Don’t be daft,’ she said, and he almost thought he heard a giggle in her throat. ‘Rehab’s just a catch-all term for this private mental health clinic we’ve got him into. It was either check in voluntarily or they would have had him sectioned, so . . .’

‘Fuck,’ said Luke, secretly thinking that sectioning Jem might not be such a bad idea. ‘So what’s wrong with him? Has he got a condition or something?’