mobbed by a couple of retrievers who slobbered enthusiastically over her. “Sorry—they’re a bit uncontrolled,” Mrs. Hackforth apologized, roused to faint animation.
“That’s all right,” Annie said. “I love dogs.”
She could see no sign of any offspring, though the distant twitter of a television came from some far-flung corner of the house. They went into a palatial kitchen, all stainless steel and stained wood, and her hostess made coffee in a complicated piece of equipment that seemed to take much longer than a cafetière. It was clearly a struggle for her to maintain even the most desultory small talk, though she did say: “Call me Selena.” Tentatively—in view of Damon’s reputation—Annie brought up the subject of Ffylde, and what a good school it was.
“My son’s a scholarship boy,” she explained. “Otherwise I could never afford it. It’s a wonderful opportunity for Nathan. Of course, I think he’s very bright—very special—but I daresay all mothers say that.” She wasn’t being tactful, she realized, but at least she might provoke some reaction in the other woman.
“I suppose so.” For a minute an expression lingered on Selena’s face that was beyond tiredness, a bone-deep, soul-deep fatigue—a weariness of life, a dreariness of spirit. “Damon—my son—is a bit…
difficult
. Teenage stuff, the psychiatrists say. But then, psychiatrists are like mothers: they always say that.” A flicker of dried-up humor lifted her mouth. “Let’s be honest,
difficult
isn’t the word.” For the first time, she looked directly at Annie. “He’s a thief, a liar, a vandal—a monster. My daughter is chronically sick and my son is a monster. Three cheers for motherhood.”
Dear God,
Annie thought, overcome with pity.
And my only problem is a son who pops into other universes in his sleep…
“Damon hates the people he loves—he hates himself—the only thing he doesn’t seem to hate, oddly enough, is the school. Father Crowley has been wonderful; even Damon respects him. My husband’s with him now. They should be here very soon.”
Annie stood up abruptly. “I—I’m sorry,” she said, genuinely guilt-stricken. “I’m intruding. I’d better go.”
“No—please.” Just as Annie was feeling like an imposter, her hostess had become anxious to keep her there. “It was really kind of you to bring the book. I don’t know if you realized, but Giles is a publisher: he has a genuine love of books. He’s been collecting this sort of thing lately—antique volumes on magic and so on. I know he’ll want to see this one.”
“I could leave it with you…”
“Have some more coffee.”
Annie accepted, feeling she should, wanting to abandon her researches but aware that she was trapped in the role she had created for herself. “Has your son—has Damon always had problems?” she inquired, fishing for diplomatic language.
Selena shrugged. “Not really. Not that we noticed. As a little boy he was naughty but not wicked. It’s a teenage thing—it always is, isn’t it? The psychiatrists say it was triggered by his sister’s illness destabilizing his environment—he’d always been very fond of her but suddenly he became jealous. It showed in irrational tantrums—violence—it was as if he was possessed.”
“The Catholic Church believes in possession,” Annie said. “Does Father Crowley…?”
“This is the modern world,” Selena said. “They don’t use the word except in horror films. All we know is the abbot seems to be the only person who can ever get through to Damon.” She looked up at the sound of a car outside. “That must be them now.”
Annie, increasingly uncomfortable, wasn’t certain whether she should expect the teenage monster as well, but only Giles Hackforth and Father Crowley came in, fetched to the kitchen by Selena. If they had suspected her of vulgar curiosity or subversive investigation Annie would have been horribly embarrassed, but
“That’s all right,” Annie said. “I love dogs.”
She could see no sign of any offspring, though the distant twitter of a television came from some far-flung corner of the house. They went into a palatial kitchen, all stainless steel and stained wood, and her hostess made coffee in a complicated piece of equipment that seemed to take much longer than a cafetière. It was clearly a struggle for her to maintain even the most desultory small talk, though she did say: “Call me Selena.” Tentatively—in view of Damon’s reputation—Annie brought up the subject of Ffylde, and what a good school it was.
“My son’s a scholarship boy,” she explained. “Otherwise I could never afford it. It’s a wonderful opportunity for Nathan. Of course, I think he’s very bright—very special—but I daresay all mothers say that.” She wasn’t being tactful, she realized, but at least she might provoke some reaction in the other woman.
“I suppose so.” For a minute an expression lingered on Selena’s face that was beyond tiredness, a bone-deep, soul-deep fatigue—a weariness of life, a dreariness of spirit. “Damon—my son—is a bit…
difficult
. Teenage stuff, the psychiatrists say. But then, psychiatrists are like mothers: they always say that.” A flicker of dried-up humor lifted her mouth. “Let’s be honest,
difficult
isn’t the word.” For the first time, she looked directly at Annie. “He’s a thief, a liar, a vandal—a monster. My daughter is chronically sick and my son is a monster. Three cheers for motherhood.”
Dear God,
Annie thought, overcome with pity.
And my only problem is a son who pops into other universes in his sleep…
“Damon hates the people he loves—he hates himself—the only thing he doesn’t seem to hate, oddly enough, is the school. Father Crowley has been wonderful; even Damon respects him. My husband’s with him now. They should be here very soon.”
Annie stood up abruptly. “I—I’m sorry,” she said, genuinely guilt-stricken. “I’m intruding. I’d better go.”
“No—please.” Just as Annie was feeling like an imposter, her hostess had become anxious to keep her there. “It was really kind of you to bring the book. I don’t know if you realized, but Giles is a publisher: he has a genuine love of books. He’s been collecting this sort of thing lately—antique volumes on magic and so on. I know he’ll want to see this one.”
“I could leave it with you…”
“Have some more coffee.”
Annie accepted, feeling she should, wanting to abandon her researches but aware that she was trapped in the role she had created for herself. “Has your son—has Damon always had problems?” she inquired, fishing for diplomatic language.
Selena shrugged. “Not really. Not that we noticed. As a little boy he was naughty but not wicked. It’s a teenage thing—it always is, isn’t it? The psychiatrists say it was triggered by his sister’s illness destabilizing his environment—he’d always been very fond of her but suddenly he became jealous. It showed in irrational tantrums—violence—it was as if he was possessed.”
“The Catholic Church believes in possession,” Annie said. “Does Father Crowley…?”
“This is the modern world,” Selena said. “They don’t use the word except in horror films. All we know is the abbot seems to be the only person who can ever get through to Damon.” She looked up at the sound of a car outside. “That must be them now.”
Annie, increasingly uncomfortable, wasn’t certain whether she should expect the teenage monster as well, but only Giles Hackforth and Father Crowley came in, fetched to the kitchen by Selena. If they had suspected her of vulgar curiosity or subversive investigation Annie would have been horribly embarrassed, but
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