reading because the cabin lights had to be out and the plane juddered so much it made the letters jump. All he could do was think.
Now he was alone and unseen, he wasn’t haunted by images of the dead woman or the smell of baby wipes. Now all he could think of was his parents.
Moira. Distant, stupid, no-longer-pretty mother. She’d be fainting away every half hour, unable to cope with the loss of a man who’d been phoning his mistresses from the breakfast table for years. His grandmother used to say of her that she made a meal of everything, that’s why she never ate. She was a suffocating, empty vacuum. She didn’t even like him. Everything was reserved for Ella.
Squeak was right: there were no children. Just a plain woman in a tumbledown house. His father wouldn’t stand for that. He insisted on immaculate decor, perfect clothes, appropriate dress always. It was shock and awe but in the wrong house, and the mistake was his. It was a foolish mistake. People would find out and think him foolish.
In the rumbling dark his mind ricocheted between the messy old house and the image of Squeak on all fours, staying out of the light, looking up at him. He couldn’t blame Squeak but took it on himself, as if Squeak was a part of him that he had allowed to grow and fester unchecked. One small rational part of him recognized that it was wrong to be so loyal, and he was astute enough to know that he had picked Squeak randomly, because they had been physically close for a long, long time, because his parents weren’t fulfilling the roles they were supposed to and he needed to attach himself to someone. He was Squeak. It was irrational how much he was Squeak. These were not rational times. Every time he looked up everything had changed completely.
The headphone cushions were really itchy. He worked his index finger up under the leather cuff and scratched the skin around his ears hard. Moira wouldn’t come to the airport to get him. She’d probably be hiding in the house, in her own apartments, with Ella.
They were suddenly below the clouds, low enough for Thomas to imagine tumbling out of the plane, remaining conscious while hurtling towards the ground. The pilot took instruction from the landing tower again, their conversation crackling suddenly in Thomas’s itchy earphones. Captain Jack had flown him many times and spoke in that strange stay-calm voice they used on commercial airlines. He sounded like a bad radio DJ.
Whatever Doyle said, Thomas wouldn’t go back to St. Augustus’s. He tried to imagine his life now, how it would be day to day, what he would fill the day with. He wondered if his dad dying meant that the creditors couldn’t take their house. Thomas would still have his rooms, away from the main house, on the ground floor. It was a granny flat really. The last people used it as a granny flat. Two large rooms onto the garden, with a small kitchen and a bathroom. When they moved in his dad let Thomas have it for his own because he was smoking a bit and they wouldn’t allow it in the house. It was bad for Ella’s asthma.
He imagined himself in the bed, lying in the dark, finally, properly alone and free to think. He didn’t feel grief or sadness like he was supposed to. What he felt was bewildered and so angry that he wanted to reach forward and strangle Captain Jack.
Alarmed by his thoughts, he clasped his hands together on his lap. He looked out of the window.
His father was gone.
He had filled every room he walked into.
“Look at them, looking at me,” he said to Thomas and Ella as they walked into a restaurant once. Ella hugged her father around the waist and said something pathetic. But Thomas looked at the man, at his white hair, silvered with mousse, and knew that everyone was looking at him because he looked so moneyed. His jacket had never been rained on, his collar was new-white, he was bringing two children to a three-starred Michelin restaurant full of financiers in dark suits. It was
Now he was alone and unseen, he wasn’t haunted by images of the dead woman or the smell of baby wipes. Now all he could think of was his parents.
Moira. Distant, stupid, no-longer-pretty mother. She’d be fainting away every half hour, unable to cope with the loss of a man who’d been phoning his mistresses from the breakfast table for years. His grandmother used to say of her that she made a meal of everything, that’s why she never ate. She was a suffocating, empty vacuum. She didn’t even like him. Everything was reserved for Ella.
Squeak was right: there were no children. Just a plain woman in a tumbledown house. His father wouldn’t stand for that. He insisted on immaculate decor, perfect clothes, appropriate dress always. It was shock and awe but in the wrong house, and the mistake was his. It was a foolish mistake. People would find out and think him foolish.
In the rumbling dark his mind ricocheted between the messy old house and the image of Squeak on all fours, staying out of the light, looking up at him. He couldn’t blame Squeak but took it on himself, as if Squeak was a part of him that he had allowed to grow and fester unchecked. One small rational part of him recognized that it was wrong to be so loyal, and he was astute enough to know that he had picked Squeak randomly, because they had been physically close for a long, long time, because his parents weren’t fulfilling the roles they were supposed to and he needed to attach himself to someone. He was Squeak. It was irrational how much he was Squeak. These were not rational times. Every time he looked up everything had changed completely.
The headphone cushions were really itchy. He worked his index finger up under the leather cuff and scratched the skin around his ears hard. Moira wouldn’t come to the airport to get him. She’d probably be hiding in the house, in her own apartments, with Ella.
They were suddenly below the clouds, low enough for Thomas to imagine tumbling out of the plane, remaining conscious while hurtling towards the ground. The pilot took instruction from the landing tower again, their conversation crackling suddenly in Thomas’s itchy earphones. Captain Jack had flown him many times and spoke in that strange stay-calm voice they used on commercial airlines. He sounded like a bad radio DJ.
Whatever Doyle said, Thomas wouldn’t go back to St. Augustus’s. He tried to imagine his life now, how it would be day to day, what he would fill the day with. He wondered if his dad dying meant that the creditors couldn’t take their house. Thomas would still have his rooms, away from the main house, on the ground floor. It was a granny flat really. The last people used it as a granny flat. Two large rooms onto the garden, with a small kitchen and a bathroom. When they moved in his dad let Thomas have it for his own because he was smoking a bit and they wouldn’t allow it in the house. It was bad for Ella’s asthma.
He imagined himself in the bed, lying in the dark, finally, properly alone and free to think. He didn’t feel grief or sadness like he was supposed to. What he felt was bewildered and so angry that he wanted to reach forward and strangle Captain Jack.
Alarmed by his thoughts, he clasped his hands together on his lap. He looked out of the window.
His father was gone.
He had filled every room he walked into.
“Look at them, looking at me,” he said to Thomas and Ella as they walked into a restaurant once. Ella hugged her father around the waist and said something pathetic. But Thomas looked at the man, at his white hair, silvered with mousse, and knew that everyone was looking at him because he looked so moneyed. His jacket had never been rained on, his collar was new-white, he was bringing two children to a three-starred Michelin restaurant full of financiers in dark suits. It was
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