Chapter One
In the nick of time, Mitchell caught hold of the taxi’s backseat grab handle. The cabbie had floored the accelerator after nudging his car from the long queues of cross-harbour congestion into the empty lane heading towards the Aberdeen Tunnel. In the wing mirror, Mitchell watched the towering office blocks of Victoria Harbour shrink into the distance. For Hong Kong, as for many cities worldwide, the last day of April preceded the Labour Day public holiday, which inevitably led to after-work snarl-ups and long delays with commuters hurrying to be with family and friends.
On the approach to the tunnel entrance, his phone rang. As he pulled the device from his inside jacket pocket, he had a pretty good idea who the caller would be. Mitchell seldom left work before eight on weekdays, even though his contractual hours were nine to six. Such was the way of the working world in The City That Never Slept. That Tuesday night he had been invited to a kind of coming-out party and had managed to clear most of his work before slipping out of the door. He had not been able to find his boss and fully expected her to be on the line. But his phone had another name on the screen.
“Ellie? Everything okay?”
“Is this a good time, Mitch?” she asked. They called each other every Sunday. Or rather, she phoned, and he listened. He had come to view the conversations as her weekly therapy session. Mitchell usually browsed online newspapers while she grumbled about family or work.
“Well, I’m about fifteen minutes away from my drop-off,” said Mitchell. “Being thrown around the backseat of a taxi by a wannabe Lewis Hamilton. So I’d say now is as good a time as any.”
“Tell him to slow down then. Don’t they have speed limits over there?” came his sister’s stern but anxious voice. Mitchell bit his tongue. He hadn’t been thinking. The last thing he wanted was to worry his sister by dredging up memories of Joel.
“I’m kidding, Ellie. He’s perfectly competent,” said Mitchell calmly. “He was just negotiating a curve in the expressway. The road system here is far less complicated than over there, barely any speed bumps or mini roundabouts, or those ridiculous ever-changing speed zones designed to catch drivers on cameras. Why are you calling?”
He could hear her taking a moment to breathe.
“Zane’s been accepted into Leeds. For the mechanical engineering degree programme he wanted.”
“That’s great news.”
And expensive, he mused, which was probably why she was calling. Their grandparents had set up education trust funds for her three children years ago, but fees had soared since then.
“I know, but he’s now got time on his hands. He’ll be living in the halls for the first year, but we don’t move him in until August.”
“What about a part-time job?”
“I wanted him to get out and socialise more. He’s always been a bit of a loner. And the coronavirus years haven’t helped. He’s far more insular than Peter and Jules. I want him to take this time out and see the world. How would you feel about him coming to visit you?”
Mitchell had been hypnotised by the lights on the tunnel walls as they flashed past, and her question caught him off guard. How would he feel about sharing his space with someone?
“Here?” he asked, rather inanely.
“For part of the summer.”
“How long?”
“A week. Maybe two. He can be with you at the beginning of June.”
“A month’s time?”
“If it’s convenient.”
Mitchell’s mind went blank.
“I—I don’t really know him, sis.”
Referred to as the gay uncle who lived abroad, Mitchell had spent precious little time with his niece and nephews. On Ellie’s advice he sent them cards and deposited money into their savings accounts for birthdays and Christmases. On his last trip back five years ago, twenty-year-old Peter had talked his ear off about rugby, while eleven-year-old Julie had asked a stream of questions about living in China.
Zane had all but ignored him.
“Isn’t that the point? For the two of you to get to know each other? I’m worried that if he stays home he’ll spend the summer in his bedroom glued to the internet or playing those mindless bloody computer games.”
“Have you spoken to him about this?”
“Of course I have.”
“And?”
“And he said he’s okay as long as you are.”
Mitchell had no idea what they’d talk about or how he would entertain Zane. As though answering his prayer, he glanced out of the window just as the taxi passed a giant billboard for the Ocean Park theme park.
“Just him? No friend?”
“Just him. I’m not sure he has any close friends. I thought he could stay until the twenty-third.”
Three weeks, then.
“I’ll have to work, Ellie.”
“He’s almost twenty, Mitch. He doesn’t need babysitting. Just somewhere to set up camp. Give him a house key and he can find his own way around. And maybe the two of you can hang out at the weekend. If you can find the time.”
He chose not to rise to the bait of the innuendo in her final words. He wouldn’t have hesitated if she had suggested Peter, a nephew who could at least hold down a conversation. What did he know about Zane? Not much. Although he was sure he’d once overheard Jules talking to him about his work backstage on a school play.
“Okay, look,” she said, clearly sensing his hesitation. “Cards on the table. Rob and I need to drive up to Newcastle to help move his mum into a care home and sort out her house, which is likely to take at least two to three weeks. Peter’s holidaying with his girlfriend for a fortnight at the end of the month while Rob’s sister’s taking Jules to Spain with them over half term. Zane says he’s happy to stay home and look after himself, but I want him to use this time, Mitch. And what better opportunity than bonding with his fabulous Guncle. Please say yes.”
Mitchell took a moment to consider her plea.
“And I’ve managed to reserve cheap flights. All I need is a yes from you before I press go.”
And there it was, the crunch. Mitchell sighed dramatically. Ellie loved a bargain.
“Yes, then.”
“Fantastic. I’ll send you the details—”
“No,” said Mitchell firmly. “No, get Zane to email them to me. And tell him to let me know if he has any food allergies, dislikes or other quirks. Broadband is fibre and second to none here, so you can put his mind at rest there. And I want a list of the top five things he wants to do while he’s over—”
“I don’t think he knows enough about Hong Kong—”
“Then tell him to start researching. He’s going to need those skills for uni. If he has a checklist, he can tick things off while he’s here.”
Right then, another caller’s name popped up on his screen, one he had been expecting earlier.
“Thank you, Mitch,” said Ellie. “Rob will be relieved—”
“Sorry, Ellie. Can we pick this up on Sunday? I’ve got my boss on the other line.”
“Bugger off, then. I’ll book his flights. Speak Sunday.”
Mitchell thumbed the incoming call.
“Mitchell. Where are you?” came the irritated voice of his boss, Pauline Ng.
“In a taxi. Heading to a friend’s place for a family gathering. I tried to find you on my way out, but your secretary said you were busy.”
“I was. I am,” said Pauline, as dismissively as ever. “I wanted to speak to you privately.”
“Do you want me to head back in?”
“No, no. There’s no need. Do you have time to talk now?”
“Fire away.”
* * * *
Half an hour later, holding a glass of red wine, Mitchell glowered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Beth and Kate’s lavish eighteenth-floor Repulse Bay apartment. The whole southwestern end housed a wall of enormous windowpanes. That evening they framed a spectacular fiery sunset across the South China Sea. At any other time, the sight might have lifted his spirits.
He should have ignored Pauline’s call. Then again, she was like a terrier and would have kept ringing until he’d answered. Why did she always choose to confide unwelcome news late in the day? And just before a weekend or a public holiday? Why could she not let him enjoy his day off? Plans to close down their office in Hong Kong and relocate all departmental functions to Singapore or London told on Tuesday evening would still be the same gut-wrenching news come Thursday morning.
He knew why. Pauline wanted him to start getting his head around logistics and planning what would happen without being distracted by day-to-day work. Was it her fault if the strictly confidential news ruined his day off?
Her special initiative was going to be horrendous. There would be multiple redundancies. Statutory severance payouts bordered on pitiful, and unless the organisation matched the more generous British redundancy calculations—which was unlikely—many good local people would have a paltry handout and no livelihood. In the weeks and months following the end of the pandemic, they had reduced headcount by around five per cent. But in all his years in Hong Kong, working for the same bank, something felt different about this, brutal and final—and personal.
“What do you think, Mitchell, darling? About Colton Underwood? Mark says he should have stayed in the closet,” said Harold, wrenching him away from his thoughts. Of all the group, sixty-eight-year-old Harold could read Mitchell’s mood better than anyone, and honestly, he was grateful for the distraction.
“I don’t know who that is,” said Mitchell, half-heartedly but truthfully. “Is he Carrie Underwood’s brother?”
He had not meant the remark to be funny but chuckled along with the men standing around him, whose earnestness had dissolved into mirth.
“Darling,” said Harold, shaking his head. “You are very close to losing your membership—”
“Be nice, Harold,” said Mark. “At least he knows who Carrie Underwood is. Surely that has to count for something.”
“I suppose we should allow some slack. He is a banker, after all,” said Harold.
Harold Choi had been Mitchell’s best friend for over eight years. Now confined to a motorised wheelchair due to a rare spinal tumour, he stayed as active as his condition allowed. Always escorted by his long-term partner, William, he provided a voice of reason and sound advice in Mitchell’s life. Long before the illness, Harold had worked tirelessly and sold his Hong Kong property business for a premium. With too much time on his hands and reduced mobility, he knew everything about the global entertainment industry but rarely paid any attention to the finer points of his friends’ lives.
“I’m a human resources manager for Charteris Bank.”
“Hiring and firing?” asked a grinning Mark—a simplistic view of his work but one that felt entirely accurate that particular evening. “Or are you a jack of all trades?”
Canadian Mark Doolen was the youngest and newest group member. He sported the kind of clean-cut and wholesome handsomeness characterised by young disciples of the Church of Latter-Day Saints. Mark had been in Hong Kong less time than any of them, and his introduction to the region had been a stint at a lacklustre quarantine hotel at the tail end of the pandemic pantomime. They had met only once before. Mitchell liked him and felt a mutual connection, more of respect than attraction. He sensed Mark was attracted to a particular type, a specific group into which none of their crowd fell.
“Jack of all trades,” muttered William, stationed behind Harold’s chair. “Master of none.”
“Oft times better than a master of one,” said Harold.
And then there was William.
Mitchell had no idea how their relationship had stood the test of time. William exuded negativity and conversed in clipped, precise milliseconds, while the more optimistic Harold often rambled on in long, drawn-out, convoluted minutes.
“I do a little of everything,” said Mitchell, focusing on Mark.
“A little, as in…?” asked Mark. Maybe he was making polite conversation, but he appeared genuinely interested.
“Strategic recruitment for specialist positions, providing advice when considering moving into new areas of operation. But I also get involved in everyday people work issues. Managing performance, employee engagement and training. I’ve been running awareness sessions at all levels on diversity, equity and inclusion.”
“Pandering to the woke generation,” said William.
“More like adapting old attitudes to a new world with a more enlightened workforce. There’s a shrinking pool of talent out there. The new generation entering the workplace have choices and, naturally, want to work somewhere fair and culturally accepting. Even investors want to know they’re putting their money into an organisation that has strong ethical values, including how they treat their employees. Unfortunately, some old-school directors running companies these days are just paying lip service to the concepts and, deep down, only care about the bottom line.”
William pursed his lips and shrugged. “Profit is not a dirty word. Companies need to make one to survive.”
“Of course they do, but—” began Mitchell.
“What kind of things do you include in diversity?” asked Mark, clearly interested and pointedly ignoring William. “The usual suspects? Tolerance? Discrimination? Equal opportunities?”
“They’re all components. But there are other, more subtle areas like unconscious bias. Learnt assumptions or beliefs that we’re not aware of, ones that might adversely affect our decisions and reinforce negative stereotypes. You know, like when someone voices their surprise that a Hong Kong native’s spoken Mandarin is good. The statement might sound like a compliment, but the inherent bias is that, unconsciously, they believe locals only know how to converse in Cantonese. Many of the people I work with have parents who speak fluent Mandarin and Cantonese, and often other dialects. I’ve also had to cover something new for me, something called bystander intervention.”
“Bystander intervention? Heavens, should we even ask?” said William, rolling his eyes.
“It’s how we handle harassment, not so much as a perpetrator or a victim—something already embedded in our policies—but as an observer. Imagine you’re at work and you witness someone being treated badly by another person, not necessarily physically or even overtly, but just something you sense intuitively. Like someone who singles out an individual and demonstrates bullying behaviour towards them. You have a choice whether to stand up and do something and actively intervene, or report what you see to someone in authority. Or you could walk away and say nothing.”
“Speaking up is common sense, though, isn’t it?” asked Mark, nodding thoughtfully. “That’s what any decent folk would do.”
“I like to think so. Although there’s always the fear of misinterpreting a situation. But having something formally written into our policies rather than relying on common sense means that people have guidelines, which in turn means that anyone tempted to harass someone knows there will be consequences. In the past it’s been all too easy to turn a blind eye.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” said Mark. “Sounds like you enjoy what you do?”
“Sometimes. Like any job, there are the good and bad parts. Too often these days you just keep your mouth shut, put on a brave face and do what you have to do.”
Harold clearly noticed the change in Mitchell’s tone. He turned the chair to face Mitchell using the joystick on his armrest. William took the opportunity to perch down on a wooden bench.
“Am I sensing a disturbance in the Force, darling?” he asked, reaching out to touch Mitchell’s arm. “You don’t seem your usual self tonight.”
Mitchell couldn’t disclose information about the upheaval coming down the line—not that Harold would care anyway—but he had other news that would most certainly grab Harold’s attention.
“Enough with the Charles Xavier routine, Harold. My sister dropped a bombshell on the way here. My young nephew is taking time out before going to uni in September. She wants him to stay with me in Hong Kong for most of June.”
“Oh,” said Harold, skeletal fingers held over his lips. “What has she told him about you?”
“He knows I’m gay, if that’s what you mean,” said Mitchell with a shrug. “You know their generation. Whatever your preference, they couldn’t care less.”
“Unless you’re fucking up their pronouns,” said William.
“I have to admit to feeling a little disappointed by this self-proclaimed enlightened generation,” said Harold. “I’d hoped they would finally retire labels, insist that people are people and love is love in whatever form that takes, and negate the need for the categorisation. But there appear to be more now than ever, each one vying for our attention and understanding. Sorry, getting off topic. Is this nephew of yours bringing a friend?”
“Just him.”
“Isn’t having him staying with you going to be a cock-block?” asked Mark.
“By cock-block, you’re assuming I have a sex life,” said Mitchell quickly before anyone else could.
“Definitely in danger of losing your membership,” muttered Harold.
“What’s he like?” asked Mark. “Your nephew?”
“That’s the thing, I don’t really know him. He was born and raised in New Zealand until the age of ten. They moved back to England around the time of the London Olympics, and I’d already been working here for a couple of years by then.”
“You must have met him, though? On your trips back home?”
“A few times, but only enough to say hello. We’ve never spent time together.” As he spoke, the realisation hit him hard. While he had pursued his career across the other side of the world, he’d missed out on the lives of his niece and nephews. “On most trips back, I’m rushing to meetings in London, or between family and friends. I’m exhausted by the time I board the plane back here. I mean, he’s a good kid by all accounts, but he doesn’t seem to have any close friends. My sister said he’s intelligent but shy and not particularly sociable, if you know what I mean?”
“On the spectrum,” said William.
“Not necessarily. And, for the record, I dislike that expression. If anybody’s different these days, they get written off as being on the spectrum, as though they’re borderline clinically dysfunctional or have a personality disorder. Not only is it a lazy way to explain away somebody’s nonconformist behaviour, but it’s often wrong and can be hurtful to the person in question. More importantly, it undermines those dealing with real issues of that nature.”
“Excuse me, Mary,” said William, holding his palms up. “What is with you tonight?”
“What kind of things does he like?” asked Mark.
“Again—and this is only what my sister tells me—he spends a lot of time playing online games like Minecraft or following his favourite internet celebrities on social media. You know, YouTube, TikTok, Snapchat. She’s mentioned a few names in the past but they meant nothing to me.”
“Well, there you are. You have the spare bedroom, don’t you?” said Harold. “With a single bed, air-conditioning and a small desk. Set him up in there, plug him into your Wi-Fi, shut the door and forget about him.”
Mitchell chuckled. Zane would probably be delighted with that arrangement.
“The plan is for me to help bring him out of his shell. I suppose I could drag him around the usual sights, but I wanted to do something that got him more, you know, involved locally with people his own age. Sports, or hiking or arts and crafts. I’m sure my niece told me he helped backstage with theatre productions at school.”
“William,” said Harold, turning to his partner, “you’ve always been an advocate of community theatre, haven’t you? Always trying to cajole me into accompanying you to one amateur production or another.”
“Before the crony-virus.”
“Aren’t the arts worldwide rising from the ashes like the proverbial phoenix? Surely there must be something on the horizon?”
“They’re doing Cabaret the Musical . Early June. Started rehearsals in March.”
“There you go, Mitchell, darling. Perfect timing. Find somebody who’s on the production team or in the cast and ask if they need help working behind the scenes, if such is his wont.”
“Actually,” said Mitchell, “that’s not a bad idea. Don’t suppose you know anyone involved?”
“Kate’s friend Shelly,” said William. “She helps run rehearsals. Think she even directed a show once.”
“Problem solved,” said Harold. “Have a word with your friend Kate. Although Beth seems to have recruited her to remind people not to lean against walls or touch artwork, and to use coasters and napkins on pain of death. Surprised she isn’t handing out latex gloves. On second thoughts, tonight might not be the best time to get Kate’s attention.”
“I’ll send her a message,” said Mitchell.
“Honestly,” said Harold, peering around the room, “can you believe they’re bringing a child to live in this mausoleum? I am so looking forward to being invited back one day in the near future and finding scribbles in coloured crayon and tiny strawberry jam handprints on their pristine white walls.”
Despite his sullen mood, Mitchell had to suppress his laughter. Harold had a way of articulating what others were thinking. Even with the addition of clusters of pastel pink and pearl balloons framing the windows, Beth and Kate’s apartment exuded all the homely cosiness of a Hollywood Road fine arts gallery. With no music playing, guests spoke in hushed tones. Only the jangle of Beth’s polished glass earrings cut through the low hum of conversations like wind chimes as she ushered two servers across the bamboo flooring to offer around silver platters of colourful, tasteless vegan nibbles.
“Can we leave yet? My arse is going numb,” said William, rising slowly from the bench.
“I'd suggest giving it half an hour after they’ve introduced Angel,” said Mitchell, checking his watch.
“And how long is that going to take?” said Harold. “She told me seven-thirty. If I’d known it was going to be this uncomfortable I’d have brought picnic chairs. I blame you, Mitchell. You could have given us the heads-up.”
“I told you what I knew, that they lived in one of the Repulse Bay luxury apartments, the block with the square hole in the middle. That should have been clue enough.”
“Yeah, what is that about?” asked Mark. “The hole in the building.”
“Feng shui,” said Harold, rubbing one hand over the other. “A local superstition that dragons live in the mountains behind the apartment block. The opening allows them to pass freely through the building to get to the sea. Blocking their way would bring bad luck. Leaving the space open means they can come and go any time they please.”
“Unlike us,” said William. “Hal, I demand hot food after this.”
When he followed up with words in Cantonese, Mitchell could only guess their meaning from the tone and the face William pulled. Both men habitually ridiculed the Western tradition of serving cold finger food at drink parties.
“Could they not at least switch off the air-conditioning for a few minutes?” asked William, blowing heat into the fingers of one hand. “Or do they think the vegan paté rice cakes might get warm.”
“Is anyone actually enjoying this?” asked Harold.
“Tommy Chow,” muttered William with disdain.
“Tommy’s here?” asked Harold.
“By the bay windows,” said William. “Wearing the expensive, tight-fitting Alexander McQueen shirt, if I’m not mistaken. In virginal white. Oh my, the irony.”
“Mr Smoking Hot? I assumed he was one of the waiting staff,” said Mark, his attention drawn to the figure William had pointed out.
Mitchell recognised him immediately. Tommy Chow, all smiles, networking the room like a vote-hungry politician. Mark was right, Tommy turned heads. Perfectly coiffed dark hair brushed up and with tapered sides showcasing his flawless, handsome Asian features. He looked like a Canto-pop celebrity in his fitted jeans and blue felt shoes without socks to show off his muscled legs and slim ankles. Mitchell had never been attracted to ostentatious men, but Tommy’s many ensembles always seemed effortless, natural rather than cultured.
“Good heavens, Mark,” said Harold, a hand pressed to his chest. “Are you telling me you’ve been in Hong Kong all this time and he hasn’t tried to jump your bones? Tommy must be off his game.”
Mitchell had never been able to figure out Tommy. On the rare occasions they’d met, Tommy had been civil enough, but his attention had quickly wandered elsewhere, probably on the lookout for something better. Mitchell had shrugged off the slight and didn’t even find the behaviour insulting. He knew he wasn’t Tommy’s type. Too old and uncool. End of story. And that suited Mitchell perfectly because he’d already had the best. And nobody, not even Tommy the socialite, could compete or even come close. But that didn’t stop Mitchell’s faint admiration. Tommy might have flaws—who didn’t?—and be considered vapid and superficial by their highly critical group, but on a night like tonight he put their antisocial elitism to shame.
“Don’t be offended, Mark,” said Mitchell, sipping his wine. “I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been snubbed by him. I’m not even sure he remembers my name.”
“That, my dear Mitchell, is because you have singular tastes and impossibly high standards where potential mates are concerned,” said Harold. “What is it Kate says about you? Mitchell is not one of those happy to dip his toe into many pools until he finds one he likes. He’s someone whose idea of foreplay is intelligent conversation. And I’m afraid, my dear, that’s enough to scare the shit out of most of our local gay community. Especially men like Tommy, who prefer to splash aimlessly from one puddle to the next like toddlers happy to be in the rain.”
Mitchell chuckled at the image. Harold had tried to match-make Mitchell with a couple of his friends. Never successfully. And, yes, he was not a fan of online hook-ups, but neither was he a prude. During his first few months in Hong Kong he had swiped his way through a handful of no-strings encounters. But the selection had grown smaller every time, and the appeal had soon waned.
“At least Tommy’s bothering to mingle,” said Mark, his eyes still trained across the room.
“Tommy’s a sexual butterfly,” said William, plucking a slice of offending cucumber from the top of his finger food. “He’s not mingling. He’s flitting from group to group, trying to sniff out tonight’s hook-up.”
“I thought you said we were the only gay men at this party,” said Mark.
“Tommy’s an equal opportunity slut,” said William. “Heterosexuality has never been a barrier.”
“I know the guy he’s chatting to,” said Mitchell. “That tall, good-looking one with the light brown hair is Adam. He’s an investment analyst. Plays rugby for a local team. And he’s definitely straight. I work with his wife.”
“Whereas the shady-looking gentleman standing next to him is single and will take whatever he can get,” said Harold. “Not a particularly decent sort, by all accounts. Heaven knows how he got himself invited.”
“Gentlemen,” came Kate’s clipped English voice from behind them. Mitchell noticed everyone stiffen slightly as though a teacher had caught them vaping in the cloakroom. “Thanks awfully for coming tonight. This was supposed to be an early gathering for everyone to meet Angel before her bedtime. An hour ago. Just hang on a few more minutes. She’s finally decided which new dress she’ll wear. Already turned her nose up and stamped her heel at four of our choices, the little madam.”
“Taking after Beth, then?” said Mitchell with a smirk.
Although she giggled along with them all, Kate tilted her head at Mitchell to let him know that his comment wasn’t far from the truth. Two demanding Beths in the same household would make for an interesting future.
Kate appeared to have been tasked with preparing and quieting the room, readying everyone for the entrance of the new starlet. Right on cue, the only child at the party appeared in the corridor leading from the bedrooms. Dressed in an ice-blue dress, like a miniature Elsa from Frozen , she was being urged forward by an uncharacteristically stressed Beth.
“Hi, everyone. This is Angel,” said Beth in her crisp New York accent. “As you know, Angel’s been living at a local orphanage for the past two years. You’ll also know that Beth and I have been to see her on numerous occasions, and we’ve gotten to know each other really well. Anyway, she’s agreed to come and live with us for six months on a trial fostering arrangement. And if she enjoys living here, well, maybe she’ll agree to stay for good. But that’s going to be her choice. Would you want to say a few words, Angel?”
Taking a step forward from Beth, Angel yanked her hand away, clasped both of her hands to her stomach as though about to sing.
“My aunties asked me to come and say hello to you all. After school we had a party with my school friends and we had special cupcakes. I’m afraid we ate all of those, but we left the balloons for you. Although you can’t eat them, of course. Anyway, I hope you have a nice time, even if there’s no cake. And thank you all for my presents that my aunties say I can open tomorrow morning. But for now, I need to go to bed, so good night.”
To a chorus of good nights, the pretty little thing grinned a gap-toothed smile and waved a hand like royalty before turning away. But then, as an afterthought, she turned back.
“And Auntie Beth said nobody better spill a goddamn thing on her ‘spensive rugs—”
“Yes, yes, Angel, hon. Time for bed now,” said Beth, her eyes widening at Kate before she led their new arrival into the corridor to a murmur of titters. Yes, their little Angel was going to be a handful.
“Let’s suffer through another fifteen minutes before making our escape,” said Harold, peering over at the small group by the front door bidding their goodbyes to Kate and Beth. “Not sure if you noticed, Mitchell, but your colleague’s drunken husband slipped out a moment ago. Led away by Tommy and the vampire. Heaven knows where they’re off to, but I doubt it will end well.”
Mitchell checked the open front door where Kate and Beth stood deep in conversation with an elderly couple. For all his wit and sarcasm, Mitchell trusted Harold’s insights, and right then, something crystallised in him. He leant down to position his glass carefully on a coaster before straightening up.
“How long?” asked Mitchell.
“Sorry?” asked William, confused.
“Around five minutes,” said Harold.
“Tell me you’re not going to crash their party?” asked William.
“Quite the opposite. You asked earlier about bystander intervention,” said Mitchell. “Well, this is a living example, me taking the initiative to stop Adam—and probably Tommy—finding themselves in a situation they might regret. Most of all, it’s about me knowing all of this and bothering to offer my help. They might tell me to piss off, but at least I’ll know I tried. Because if I woke tomorrow morning and found out something terrible had happened, knowing I could have intervened but did nothing, then I’d never forgive myself.”
“You’re an idealist. They’re adults,” said William, rolling his eyes. “They can take care of themselves.”
“That may be the case. And maybe I am being oversensitive.”
“Would they do the same for you?” asked William. Mitchell noticed that Harold had yet to pass comment. “I think not.”
“Fine. Then let’s just say I’m doing this for me,” said Mitchell before holding a hand up in farewell. “I’ll call you over the weekend.”
“Good man,” was all Harold contributed.
And with that, after a quick wave to the hosts, Mitchell slipped through the door.