He said: “I’d like to say goodbye to Isaac now please.”
After kissing him on the cheek, she carried out a box of prized creations, leaving Albert and Isaac alone. The shelves along one wall were still populated with people’s ill-conceived clay models. The pottery shed had been the official safe place, being out of the way and one of the few lockable rooms, so all the stuff cleared out to make way for the party had been stashed here: a red Gibson SG, furred with dust; a portable TV; some French oak planks.
Albert went to the door, shut it, turned the key. The pottery shed was filthy, spattered windows suppressing the first hints of daylight outside. The concrete floor was textured with dried-on blots of clay.
“I’m going to miss you,” Isaac said.
“You didn’t tell me you were leaving.”
“I was scared. I’m sorry. I don’t want to go.”
“How long have you known?”
Isaac looked befuddled as he tried to count on his fingers. To Albert, Isaac didn’t look cute. Albert didn’t get cuteness.
“I’m not letting you go,” Albert said.
“Good. ’Cause I don’t want to.”
Albert scanned the piles of stuff that obscured the back wall.
“But if I do go then Mum says we can write real letters to each other and you can visit me.”
One of the shelves rattled as the bass glissando’d an octave.
“Just ’cause we’re apart dun’t mean we can’t be friends.”
When Isaac was upset he reverted to babyish language.
“You can’t even hardly fucking
read
, Eyes.” Albert picked up one end of a surfboard and dragged it out of the way. He
was looking for something. Isaac stared at the ground and started rubbing his eyes. From this far away, the female vocals sounded gagged.
“Come and visit me,” Isaac said, and he took two steps toward Albert’s back.
“Lie on the floor.”
“What?”
Albert turned and punched him in the neck. Isaac took two steps back and then sat down. Returning to the mound of stuff, Albert yanked down a plastic box of metal coat hangers, which scattered over the floor.
“What are we doing?” Isaac said.
Crying brought out the puffiness in his face. Albert hauled out a bedside table, then flipped a blue mattress, launching fireworks of dust in the gathering light. Next he got hold of a camping gas stove and dragged it out, making a
ga-ga-ga
juddering noise on the concrete. Behind that he found a plastic case that had the word
Blitz
on it. It was normally kept in the barn, but Albert knew his mother had stashed it here so that none of the revelers would find it.
“Where I’m going in Northumbria,” Isaac said, “there’s a big slide.”
“You’re going to be so stupid when you grow up.”
He brought out the hard case and laid it on the floor. Clicking the latches, the case opened, showing a tin of charges, cleaning solution, two brushes, and the bolt gun, which looked like a switched-off light saber. Isaac knew what it was because together they had practiced putting holes in the Yellow Pages.
The bass-heavy music went through another buildup.
Albert didn’t understand how these morons could get excited again and again. Every time, just when it seemed like something really was going to happen, it carried on with the same damp thump.
Albert picked up the gun and unscrewed the cap. He took a charge from the tin, slotted it into the top with ease, and put the cap back on. He pulled up the firing pin, which looked like the top of a sports water bottle.
“What’s the plan, Alb?”
Along the bottom shelf on one wall were the recently kilned creations. A stoneware goat looked like a square battery on legs. Albert held the base of the bolt pistol to the goat and squeezed the red trigger. The charge exploded and the model shattered in a satisfying way, tiny chits of clay falling onto the floor. It seemed easy now, and he didn’t know how he had been so weak with Belona. Isaac laughed, involuntarily. A wisp of smoke moved across the room. The smell was fierce. Albert was already reloading.
“Nice one!” Isaac said, and he stood up and pointed at a delicate milk jug. “My mum made that one—get it!”
Albert pulled up the pin, aimed, and the thing exploded, the noise reverberating in the small room. Isaac asked for a go.
“Shut up, Isaac,” he said, and kicked him in the knee.
Isaac sat again and held his leg with both hands. Albert reloaded and, one-handed now, squeezed the trigger and shattered quite a pro-looking hen. It wasn’t possible to see the bolt go in and out—it just looked like things were exploding at his command. Albert’s shoulder hurt, from the kickback. The smoke on the inside of the room wasn’t yet as thick as the mist on the outside.
“What are you doing in there?” Marina’s voice from outside. She tried the handle on the door. “Let me in.”
“Do this one,” Isaac said, standing up again and pointing at a miniature punk rocker sitting in an armchair. Albert reloaded and held the gun to the man’s head, managing to knock it clean off without damaging the body. The noise was loud, but they were used to loud noise. “You’re great, Albert.”
“Open this door now,” Marina said. Her voice sounded different from every other time Albert had heard her.
“You’re my best friend,” Isaac said.
“You’ll believe anything. We’re not friends anymore.”
“Alb.” Isaac put his hand on Albert’s shoulder. “It stinks in here!”
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes.”
“Open up
this minute
!” Marina said.
“Lie down then.”
“Okay.”
“Eyes and Albert! Enough messing around!” Her fist banging the door.
Isaac lay down on the concrete, legs together, arms at his side, coffin-ready. Albert put another cartridge in the gun, which was hot now. The light coming through the window was brightening and Albert had a shadow as he knelt at Isaac’s feet.
More banging. She rattled the door handle again, harder. The shape of a head appeared at the grid of small windows set into the door that were too dirty to see through. A hand wiped the glass but couldn’t clear it.
“I’m scared.”
Albert held the bolt gun with two hands. The last time he had held this gun, he had been unable to follow things through and he hated himself for that.
“Will you do everything I tell you to?”
“Yes.”
“Say ‘I’m a fucking idiot.’ ”
“I am a fucking idiot.”
“Say ‘I dunno who my dada is.’ ”
The tears were rolling out the sides of Isaac’s eyes and down into his ears.
“I dunno who my dada is.”
“What are you
doing
?” Marina yelled.
He hovered the bolt gun at the sole of Isaac’s left shoe. From where he was he could see inside Isaac’s nostrils. Outside, Marina was calling for help.
Albert shuffled round on his knees. He had his hands one above the other and moved the base of the gun over the end of Isaac’s toes, along the top of his foot, then followed his left shin to the kneecap, where he let it hover. He thought of the game with the electrified wire and the hoop and if you touch the wire you’re dead.
“Let me in or I’ll break this door down,” Marina said, and to Albert it didn’t sound threatening. She wasn’t believable anymore.
“Tell me how it’s going to end,” Albert said.
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me.”
The witching hour used to be midnight but nowadays, Varghese said, you have to run a party to four in the morning
before it can take on a mythic quality. It was 4:48 a.m., and if it weren’t for the mist, it would have been full daylight, this time of year. Don was standing near the biofuel generator, ready to pull the plug. It was running on vegetable oil from Paco’s Diner and the smell held the memory of a thousand glistening breakfasts. It was lucky that Don still didn’t really like any music, because whatever this was, it was terrible. He was the oldest person he could see. Scattered across the yard were piles of shiny metal shells that he had learned were the by-product of nitrous, a drug he’d never heard of. Nearby, a couple were hard snogging on the ground, the boy’s hand unself-consciously cranked up her gore-soaked wedding gown. The mist made everywhere seem private. Varghese was wandering about filming people. He only seemed interested in the casualties, like the girl he was speaking to now, wearing animal slippers and a high-visibility jacket. Someone was yelling help and running through the mist, and Varghese immediately filmed the figure approaching. Don waited for the person to say “Help, help, I’ll die if I don’t find a king-size Rizla” or whatever, but she didn’t and it was Marina. Varghese tracked her. She grabbed Don’s hand.
When they got there, there was the sound of Isaac’s wailing, high like a kettle. Don couldn’t see through the window. He wiped it with his sleeve, but the dirt was on the inside. Hunching slightly, he spoke to the rusty lock of the door.
“Albert, it’s your father here. Are you and Isaac okay?”
There was a pause. When Albert finally spoke, his voice was quiet.
“I’m not okay.”
The key wasn’t in the lock. Don peered through the keyhole. There was a wait as he listened to a throaty noise that, he realized, must have been Isaac. He knew he needed to say something but doubted that, after what had happened this morning, his son would want to listen to him. All Don could offer was that, on this occasion, he would remain present. “Albert, your father’s here for you.” That was all. His physical self. He put his ear to the keyhole as Albert spoke.
“Turns out Marina has no idea what’s going to happen. Turns out she is actually an
idiot
, just like you always said.”
Marina stayed silent and just crouched down, her ear to the slatted wood. She showed no reaction. Don had to concede she achieved dignity.
“Dad?”
“I’m here.”
“I’m upset.”
Don could hardly hear his son’s voice. “I know you are.”
“What are you doing?” Albert said, with a note of distrust.
“What would you like me to do?”
“I don’t know. Maybe something big.”
“Okay, good,” Don said, and he knew that, whatever he did, it ought to be something his son could see and hear, something permanent.
“Albert, how about I put my hand through one of these small windows?”
There was no sound for a long time, then an affirmative noise. Don stood back from the door, stepped forward without hesitation, and put his fist through one of the twelve opaque coaster-sized windows. He went for the one just above the lock. He scraped the back of his knuckles and drew
blood. The sound of glass on the concrete floor was pretty. He retracted his hand and peeked through the shattered mouth. The second time in one evening that punching seemed like the best option. The smell in the room was fierce. The key, he saw, was down on the floor next to Albert, who was holding the bolt gun, which was touching a boy’s left temple, and the boy was Isaac, who was trying to stay perfectly still and quiet. Albert’s eyes flicked across to his father at the window, and it was clear to Don that more was expected of him; he put his mouth to the broken window.
“Albert.”
“What?”
“I love you.”
“
I know.
”
“I realized I was wrong about not wanting you to go to school. You should go to school.”
Don had no nuance and was glad of it. Again there was a wait. It was probable that Albert kept expecting his father to say more, but he didn’t.
“Why?” Albert said.
“You will have a great time and they will absolutely fucking love you.”
“Don’t swear, please.”
Don was in some pain with his hand. It actually helped him concentrate.
“Those boys will be your friends. I think they were here tonight.”
“Which boys?”
“The quad bike boys.”
“I didn’t see them.”
“They came to see you. They’ll come again.”
“Oh.”
Don paused, then said: “And you’ll be getting your own quad bike, is the other thing.”
Don’s thinking mind, which he ignored, had a few things to say about the financial realities of this. A very long wait.
“I know what you’re doing. You’re buying my love.”
“Absolutely right. It’s expensive.”
“Okay.”
Don focused on the bleeding hand.
“While you’re at school, it’ll be best for you to live in Mumbles with Uncle Patrick.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you stay at his place during term time.” He clenched and unclenched the hand. “Those lads will be your friends. You will be ten minutes’ walk or three minutes by quad from school.”
“Dad, what will you do?”
“I’m going to stay here and turn the big house into a youth hostel.”
It was a surprise to himself. It sounded okay. Marina was squinting at him.
“What about you and Mum?”
“She’s going with you.”
“You should get divorced.”
“We will. I love you.”
“I know.”
Albert was now standing back by the shelves, grinding his eye socket with one fist and holding the bolt gun in the other. Isaac, still flat on his back, stretched his hand across
and picked up the key, then crawled toward the door, army-style.
Marina listened for the key turning, and once it clicked she pulled back the door, swooped in and grabbed her son, picked him up at the armpits, and, without a word, disappeared into the grayness with her boy silent in her arms. Don stepped into the pottery shed and closed the door before Varghese, who, he only now noticed, had followed them, could come in.
The floor was scattered with severed heads, legs, bits of architecture. Don walked up to the shelves and stood next to his son, who was now pointing the bolt gun at the Eiffel Tower.
“Will everything keep going forever?”
“I believe so,” Don said.
At the far end of the shelf, there was a whole family of clay people that was supposed to be the Rileys. Some unremembered guest had made them as gifts, totems, voodoo dolls. Freya perversely obese, Kate with an ape’s posture, and Albert with massive biceps. Terrible likenesses.
“This is us,” Don said, and he pointed, dripping spots of blood on the concrete.
The model of his father was from the days when he had a beard. The artist had made it look as though the beard was just an extension of Don’s skull.