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‘Is that an axe?’
He looks down at the tomahawk. ‘Your mum thought she heard an intruder. But coast is clear.’
‘Lucky for the intruder,’ Tilly mutters, padding past him to the bathroom.
Joseph goes into his bedroom, closes the door. He returnsthe tomahawk to its hiding place. In the ensuite, he switches on the light. In the mirror over the sink he sees, once again, that look of something missing in his eyes. When he breathes, he smells the dead man’s clotted blood. He grips the basin, thinks for a moment that he’ll vomit. From the family bathroom, he hears the toilet flush.
Closing the ensuite door, Joseph strips off the rest of his clothes. He unwinds the clingfilm from around his torso and flushes the blood-soaked sheets of kitchen roll down the toilet. He showers carefully. Afterwards, he cuts a wide length of Elastoplast and secures it across his abdomen. Then he rummages through the medicine cabinet for the bottle of Sauvage, still in its packaging, that Erin bought him last Christmas. Peeling off the cellophane, he tears open the box and douses himself. It’s a good smell, different to what he smelled on the dead man. He sprays it on his fingers and dabs the skin beneath his nose. Once he’s cleaned his teeth, he creeps into the bedroom, dons fresh underwear and lies down beside Erin.
She sighs and mutters something in sleep. For the first time in months, Joseph feels the urge to spoon up to her, press his face into her hair, but even after his shower he doesn’t feel clean enough. His hands have touched death tonight. He doesn’t want to transfer that to his wife.
And physical intimacy now, when it’s been absent for so long, might make Erin question what’s changed. So Joseph remains on his back, eyes open and gritty.
Claire, if you’re watching, if you’re seeing all this, please tell me what to do. Tell me how to protect our son. Show me what he needs.
He listens to the darkness, heart thumping. Claire doesn’t respond, but suddenly the answer is clear. Climbing out of bed, he tiptoes along the hall and slips inside his son’s room.
Max is lying on his bed, eyes closed, still fully dressed.Carefully, Joseph lies down beside him. He listens to his son’s breathing for a while. Finally, he hugs him close. ‘I love you,’ he whispers. ‘I’ll always love you. I might not have been here for you in the past. But I’m here for you now, no matter what.’
Max’s breathing changes, just slightly.
Exhaustion falls over Joseph like a cloak.
EIGHT
He wakes as he always does, into thebeforeand not thenow; into a world unblemished by shame or regret. It survives for the space of a breath before folding. Joseph’s heart collapses through the bed, through both floors of the house, through millions of tons of earth, through crust and mantle and right into molten rock. There, abandoned by gravity, it ignites and burns – until he clenches his fists and his heart rockets upwards, trailing smoke and ashes, back towards duty and a crisis almost too awful to comprehend.
He gasps, opens his eyes, tightens his arms around empty space. And realizes he’s in Max’s bed, all alone.
Bright sunlight is pouring through the window. Joseph checks the bedside clock, sees it’s past nine. He springs off the mattress, hurries to his room and pulls on jeans and a shirt. During the night, the smell of the dead man has returned, hovering at the periphery of his senses. In the ensuite, he spritzes himself with cologne until the stench has gone.
Downstairs, Tilly is eating a bowl of muesli at the breakfast bar. Behind her, the kitchen’s bifold doors are open to the garden. Outside, it’s a perfect August morning. Blue sky, bright sunshine. The air is fragrant with lavender and geranium.
By the nearest worktop, Erin is fussing over the espresso machine. ‘The dead finally rise,’ she says, her blue eyes appraising him.
Joseph cringes, wondering for a stupid second if she knows something. But it was only a throwaway comment, more for her daughter’s ears than his, there to paper over what might otherwise have been a silence. The coolness of her gaze tells the real story.
He knows he hurt her again last night. Recently, the distance between them has felt like an ocean, as if they’re two life rafts pulled apart by opposing currents. His fault, not hers. Like so many other things.
This morning, Erin looks full of summer vigour: denim cut-offs, yellow gypsy top, blonde hair piled up. Her skin is smooth and clear – the product, he suspects, of a clean diet and an even cleaner conscience.
Tilly, hearing her mother’s words, raises an eyebrow. ‘He was roaming the house with a war axe last night, like some kind of Viking. Or did I dream that?’
‘No dream,’ Erin replies. ‘Just me, mistaking Max for a burglar. I heard someone downstairs and sent our Viking, here, to investigate. Where did you get that thing?’ she asks Joseph. ‘I’m really not sure I want it in the house.’
‘I—’
‘Hey, Thor,’ Tilly says. ‘Does it come back like a boomerang if you throw it?’
‘Thor carries a hammer, not an axe,’ Erin tells her, handing Joseph a cup of coffee. She lifts her nose and inhales. ‘Is that the one I bought you last Christmas?’
For a moment, Joseph doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Then, recalling his cologne, he mumbles an acknowledgement.
Erin examines him with interest. ‘Congratulations, you finally took it out of the box. You want some toast?’
‘Thanks, but I’m not hungry.’
She tilts her head. ‘Was everything OK last night? You slept in Max’s room.’