personal like this.
‘I haven’t stopped thinking about you,’ he says, and there’s a part of her that thinks He’s very good at this … this seduction … It’s an adult word, too sophisticated for her, but it’s the only word that fits.
They kiss and it’s like settling into a more comfortable place. Making out is easier than conversation. It’s less awkward. But also she feels in him his tiredness. He has been up all night, his eyes are bloodshot, his muscles slack. When he pulls back from the kiss he grins in that dopey and fatigued way – drunk with drowsiness, no inhibitions. He tugs her onto the bed with him. ‘Will you sleep with me, Rebecca?’
He holds her with one arm against his chest. The room spins around her.
‘Yes.’
‘Mmm …’ He closes his eyes. ‘You know … I even like the way your name sounds.’
16
No-one else gets to read the report in the paper. When Zach’s father is finished with it he folds it in half and throws it in the bin. He goes through to the living room and turns off the TV. Not content with this, though, he takes a crystal vase from the top of the mantelpiece and hurls it at the screen. In among the smashed glass the TV makes a popping sound, like a huge globe going out.
Aunt Belinda is at the kitchen bench, serving up a late lunch, a roast. She flinches, but continues ladling gravy. Zach sits at the table watching his father’s movements through the open door of the living room. The phone rings.
‘I’ll get it,’ his father says as he enters the room.
‘Ben Kincaid,’ he says into the receiver. He lowers his head to listen. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘But I don’t see why I should. You read what I’ve had to … Watch the reports I’ve had to on the news … I don’t care … No, you listen to me! This sort of thing doesn’t go away with a retraction. I don’t want another single thing about my family or my wife in the paper. And I want the name of whoever authorised it to be put in print …’ There is a pause while he listens. ‘I didn’t mention it!’ he says, his voice rising to a bellow, ‘Because she didn’t have a car! The reason for the search was because she didn’t have a car! Why would I? … Don’t question my fucking reaction! My name is being dragged through the mud, my wife’s name is being dragged through the mud, the whole thing is a fucking circus! … No,’ he says, ‘don’t bother. I’ll find my own way up there.’
He slams the handpiece into the cradle and stands facing the wall.
‘Aden Claas,’ he says after a moment, his demeanour more controlled. ‘Aden Claas has done this.’
17
While Aden sleeps, Rebecca goes out to the bike and takes the picnic from where it’s packed in the compartment beside the seat. His wallet is there, pens and chewing gum, the usual bits and pieces, a box of condoms, a tatty paperback – The Catcher in the Rye – and a packet of tobacco. The bike is cobalt blue, sleek, new-looking, similar to what you see on racing tracks. She doesn’t unwrap the food, but takes it inside and puts it in the fridge.
When she checks on him she sees he’s summoned up enough energy to take off his boots and jacket. He’s lying on his back, hands under his head, in a white T-shirt and his leather pants, white socks, feet crossed at the ankles, deep in sleep. Not a twitch, not a flicker, rest that doesn’t call for blankets or curling on your side, but the ability to simply close your eyes.
True to her word she lies down on the bed beside him. She doubts she’ll sleep, but tries.
He’s reading when she wakes. He’s beside her with The Shining open and held in one hand above him. ‘You’re better than me,’ he says. ‘I couldn’t live alone and read this sort of stuff. I’d be a nervous wreck. Or haven’t you even read it?’ He turns the book to look at the spine. ‘What do you do – surgically remove each page and then glue the book back together when you’re finished?’
‘I look
‘I haven’t stopped thinking about you,’ he says, and there’s a part of her that thinks He’s very good at this … this seduction … It’s an adult word, too sophisticated for her, but it’s the only word that fits.
They kiss and it’s like settling into a more comfortable place. Making out is easier than conversation. It’s less awkward. But also she feels in him his tiredness. He has been up all night, his eyes are bloodshot, his muscles slack. When he pulls back from the kiss he grins in that dopey and fatigued way – drunk with drowsiness, no inhibitions. He tugs her onto the bed with him. ‘Will you sleep with me, Rebecca?’
He holds her with one arm against his chest. The room spins around her.
‘Yes.’
‘Mmm …’ He closes his eyes. ‘You know … I even like the way your name sounds.’
16
No-one else gets to read the report in the paper. When Zach’s father is finished with it he folds it in half and throws it in the bin. He goes through to the living room and turns off the TV. Not content with this, though, he takes a crystal vase from the top of the mantelpiece and hurls it at the screen. In among the smashed glass the TV makes a popping sound, like a huge globe going out.
Aunt Belinda is at the kitchen bench, serving up a late lunch, a roast. She flinches, but continues ladling gravy. Zach sits at the table watching his father’s movements through the open door of the living room. The phone rings.
‘I’ll get it,’ his father says as he enters the room.
‘Ben Kincaid,’ he says into the receiver. He lowers his head to listen. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘But I don’t see why I should. You read what I’ve had to … Watch the reports I’ve had to on the news … I don’t care … No, you listen to me! This sort of thing doesn’t go away with a retraction. I don’t want another single thing about my family or my wife in the paper. And I want the name of whoever authorised it to be put in print …’ There is a pause while he listens. ‘I didn’t mention it!’ he says, his voice rising to a bellow, ‘Because she didn’t have a car! The reason for the search was because she didn’t have a car! Why would I? … Don’t question my fucking reaction! My name is being dragged through the mud, my wife’s name is being dragged through the mud, the whole thing is a fucking circus! … No,’ he says, ‘don’t bother. I’ll find my own way up there.’
He slams the handpiece into the cradle and stands facing the wall.
‘Aden Claas,’ he says after a moment, his demeanour more controlled. ‘Aden Claas has done this.’
17
While Aden sleeps, Rebecca goes out to the bike and takes the picnic from where it’s packed in the compartment beside the seat. His wallet is there, pens and chewing gum, the usual bits and pieces, a box of condoms, a tatty paperback – The Catcher in the Rye – and a packet of tobacco. The bike is cobalt blue, sleek, new-looking, similar to what you see on racing tracks. She doesn’t unwrap the food, but takes it inside and puts it in the fridge.
When she checks on him she sees he’s summoned up enough energy to take off his boots and jacket. He’s lying on his back, hands under his head, in a white T-shirt and his leather pants, white socks, feet crossed at the ankles, deep in sleep. Not a twitch, not a flicker, rest that doesn’t call for blankets or curling on your side, but the ability to simply close your eyes.
True to her word she lies down on the bed beside him. She doubts she’ll sleep, but tries.
He’s reading when she wakes. He’s beside her with The Shining open and held in one hand above him. ‘You’re better than me,’ he says. ‘I couldn’t live alone and read this sort of stuff. I’d be a nervous wreck. Or haven’t you even read it?’ He turns the book to look at the spine. ‘What do you do – surgically remove each page and then glue the book back together when you’re finished?’
‘I look
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