had been only a week ago, he thought, as he turned
the car around at the far end of the Western Avenue and
headed back towards the city. One short week. And what
had happened in that time? What had happened to Jake?
Had he found some new clue to his real inheritance? Or
something else?
He felt a deep unrest in his stomach. A clawing and tearing
that made him feel nauseous. He’d wanted Jake to stay. He
was relieved that he’d gone. Jake’s presence had been difficult
and yet that had somehow made it feel more worthwhile,
this whim, this whatever you wanted to call it that he was
doing. He wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t
walked in on him. What the hell was the old man doing,
those scars? The story had been only a beginning. And he
wanted to know more than ever, now that it was too late.
There was something about Jake. Something about the
old man’s silences, his words ‘it’s a botch’, his tired and
unrested hands. He reminded him of his mother in some
way but there was also a darker resemblance there, the
shadow of his father, somehow tempered beneath the beard
and borrowed clothes.
He tried to understand the chain of events. It was easier
than thinking of what was gone. Had Jake known he was
going to Amsterdam the morning he left? Before that? How
had he afforded it? He must have had money. It seemed
important that he should know. That if he could understand
the old man’s last movements, it would all make sense. There
was no promise of absolution, Jon understood that, but there
was the reassurance of maybe knowing why and, perhaps,
that would be enough.
He knew that he would go to Amsterdam to identify
Jake’s body. Work and the project could go to hell. He had
committed himself already. When he had invited Jake in,
he’d started something that he now knew he had to finish.
To forget about him would be just another layer of distance,
another way to mitigate the world, another failure to follow
through. Using work as an excuse was weak and undignified.
The idea of not even calling Dave to tell him was strangely
thrilling, like skipping class or stealing an unrequited kiss,
and the more he thought about it, the more he knew it was
the right thing to do. And he thought about his mother too,
how it would be a way to show her the kind of man he’d
become.
As he drove, buoyed by newfound resolution, he couldn’t
get the image of Jake’s scarred and torn feet out of his head.
He had guessed it was some disease, from living on the
streets, but Jake had been out there only three weeks and
besides that didn’t explain what he’d seen in the bathroom.
He’d checked the bin the next day. Felt repelled and sick
when he saw the bloody tissues. Relief that the old man
hadn’t slaughtered him in his sleep. Awareness of what could
have happened. And what about the cries that he heard
through the walls some nights, assuming it was the old man
fighting demons in his sleep? Now all these things became
magnified, craving meaning and yet refusing to yield any.
Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to realize how different they were,
how different we all are from the people we pretend to
be. He went over everything that Jake had said, trying to
remember a telling detail, something that would open things
up, explain, make sense of, but all he could think about was
Jake’s face, the soft lines etched around his mouth, the
straggly beard, the way he always wanted three and a half
sugars in his coffee — so specific, Jon thought, and laughed,
remembering how he too had once been like that until those
things, one day, just didn’t seem to matter any more. He lit
another cigarette, flipped over the tape of Flying Shoes and
pressed down on the accelerator, enjoying the little sliver of
pain that wound around his ankle as, below him, the motorway
vaulted the city, past the red brick ugliness of the BBC
building, empty basketball courts and the grey columns
the car around at the far end of the Western Avenue and
headed back towards the city. One short week. And what
had happened in that time? What had happened to Jake?
Had he found some new clue to his real inheritance? Or
something else?
He felt a deep unrest in his stomach. A clawing and tearing
that made him feel nauseous. He’d wanted Jake to stay. He
was relieved that he’d gone. Jake’s presence had been difficult
and yet that had somehow made it feel more worthwhile,
this whim, this whatever you wanted to call it that he was
doing. He wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t
walked in on him. What the hell was the old man doing,
those scars? The story had been only a beginning. And he
wanted to know more than ever, now that it was too late.
There was something about Jake. Something about the
old man’s silences, his words ‘it’s a botch’, his tired and
unrested hands. He reminded him of his mother in some
way but there was also a darker resemblance there, the
shadow of his father, somehow tempered beneath the beard
and borrowed clothes.
He tried to understand the chain of events. It was easier
than thinking of what was gone. Had Jake known he was
going to Amsterdam the morning he left? Before that? How
had he afforded it? He must have had money. It seemed
important that he should know. That if he could understand
the old man’s last movements, it would all make sense. There
was no promise of absolution, Jon understood that, but there
was the reassurance of maybe knowing why and, perhaps,
that would be enough.
He knew that he would go to Amsterdam to identify
Jake’s body. Work and the project could go to hell. He had
committed himself already. When he had invited Jake in,
he’d started something that he now knew he had to finish.
To forget about him would be just another layer of distance,
another way to mitigate the world, another failure to follow
through. Using work as an excuse was weak and undignified.
The idea of not even calling Dave to tell him was strangely
thrilling, like skipping class or stealing an unrequited kiss,
and the more he thought about it, the more he knew it was
the right thing to do. And he thought about his mother too,
how it would be a way to show her the kind of man he’d
become.
As he drove, buoyed by newfound resolution, he couldn’t
get the image of Jake’s scarred and torn feet out of his head.
He had guessed it was some disease, from living on the
streets, but Jake had been out there only three weeks and
besides that didn’t explain what he’d seen in the bathroom.
He’d checked the bin the next day. Felt repelled and sick
when he saw the bloody tissues. Relief that the old man
hadn’t slaughtered him in his sleep. Awareness of what could
have happened. And what about the cries that he heard
through the walls some nights, assuming it was the old man
fighting demons in his sleep? Now all these things became
magnified, craving meaning and yet refusing to yield any.
Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to realize how different they were,
how different we all are from the people we pretend to
be. He went over everything that Jake had said, trying to
remember a telling detail, something that would open things
up, explain, make sense of, but all he could think about was
Jake’s face, the soft lines etched around his mouth, the
straggly beard, the way he always wanted three and a half
sugars in his coffee — so specific, Jon thought, and laughed,
remembering how he too had once been like that until those
things, one day, just didn’t seem to matter any more. He lit
another cigarette, flipped over the tape of Flying Shoes and
pressed down on the accelerator, enjoying the little sliver of
pain that wound around his ankle as, below him, the motorway
vaulted the city, past the red brick ugliness of the BBC
building, empty basketball courts and the grey columns
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