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Joseph looks around the garden. Tilly and Drew are in the gazebo, helping themselves to drinks. Max is standing near the kitchen’s bifold doors, watching them.
‘Time to start burning the meat,’ Erin says.
Sweat, cold and oily, flows down Joseph’s back.
ELEVEN
Joseph hasn’t eaten all day. And now, dressed in his ridiculous apron, advertising himself as theWORLD’S OKAYIST COOK, he won’t be able to eat all night.
On the barbecue, hissing and sputtering, lie rows of pink sausages, red burgers and kebabs. There are prawn skewers, tuna fillets and racks of glazed ribs, even a couple of tomahawk steaks that Joseph will sear and Erin will finish in the oven.
Usually, the competing aromas of beef and pork and fish would have him salivating. Now, they roil his stomach. The fizz and whistle of burning fat sound to him like squeals of pain – as if, rather than barbecuing dead meat, he’s torturing live animals on his grill. As he cooks, he tries to avoid thoughts of the dead man. And when someone hands him another beer, it takes all his willpower to refuse it.
‘Dad?’
Joseph nearly drops his tongs, turns.
Max is looking at him in disbelief. ‘What the hell? You’rebarbecuing?’ He checks no one’s in earshot before adding, ‘Have you completely forgotten about last night?’
‘Of course not,’ Joseph hisses. And suddenly his emotionsignite. ‘You think I want to be standing here, wearing this stupid fucking apron, cooking cheeseburgers for Gemma fucking Robinson and all the rest of them?’
Max takes a step back. A few people glance over.
‘Look,’ Joseph says, through clenched teeth. ‘I have a plan, but I can’t just disappear from a party I’m meant to be hosting. How do you think that would look?’
Max raises his hands. ‘OK, understood. I’m sorry.’ He lowers his voice. ‘So what are we going to do?’
‘Whatyou’regoing to do is stay here, ideally with people who can vouch for you later if needed. I don’t want you involved in what comes next. Once the party’s over, I’ll take care of it.’
‘Dad, you’re not doing this alone. I’m—’
‘That’s not up for debate, Max. Did you know Ralph Erikson recorded us leaving the house at three a.m.? And coming back an hour later on bikes? That he’s beentellingeveryone? I’ve got to figure out how to get rid of his doorbell camera and its footage. Until I do, I don’t want it capturing us again, especially not at any weird times of day or night. So – put on a smile and act like you’re enjoying yourself.’
Max sighs. Then he indicates Joseph’s abdomen. ‘How is it today? Are you keeping it clean?’
‘It’s fine.’
‘You want me to take over here for a while? Give you a break?’
Joseph shakes his head. ‘If you want to help, you can carry this tray of kebabs over to the gazebo.’
Max looks at him as if he’s thinking about saying more. Instead, he takes the tray and turns his back.
Drew’s dad arrives around eight, wearing white socks and sliders and a Manchester United shirt from when Vodafone were still the sponsors. Enoch Cullen is stubbled andshaven-headed, his ears so cluttered with piercings they look to Joseph like hybrid musical instruments. He heads straight to the gazebo, emerging with two cans of Strongbow. He pops the tab on one, chugging down the contents in a couple of swallows. Then he opens the second and takes a long sip. Shuffling over to the barbecue, he punches Joseph’s arm with a fist that’s all sharp knuckles, the blow hard enough to bruise.
‘Joey-boy,’ he mutters, and belches cider fumes. ‘Ain’t seen you in a while.’
‘How are you, Enoch? Keeping busy?’
‘Ain’t no work, is there? ’Less you want peanuts. ’Less you’re happy taking shit from some jumped-up toddler just out of nursery. Knocked the last one out sparko. Then everyone got excited.’
The sun sets. The sky darkens. Overhead, a spray of stars glitters. In Joseph Carver’s back garden, wine corks pop, prosecco fizzes into glasses, jaws and tongues and teeth masticate barbecued flesh. Erin switches on strings of globe lights. Someone cranks up the music.
Joseph checks his watch constantly. Eleven p.m. comes and goes and the party’s still in full swing. At midnight, a few of the older guests start leaving, Ralph Erikson among them. By one a.m., a core of twenty drinkers remains. When Erin drags Greg Robinson into the kitchen to arrange a tray of sambuca shots, Joseph groans – and not just because he’s left with Gemma Robinson, whose dress straps keep sliding off her shoulders and who can’t seem to stand upright without snatching at him for balance.
The more Gemma drinks, the more flirtatious she grows. She tells Joseph he understands her, that Greg, her husband, doesn’t realize she’s a woman. She fingers the buttons on his new shirt and repeatedly tells him how good he looks.
Gemma glances towards the house, where Greg, his face flushed with alcohol, is emerging from the bifold doors with the sambuca tray. For a moment it looks like he’ll stumble, until Erin, following behind, puts a stabilizing hand on his shoulder.