Chapter 31
Violet
A massive heart attack.
A statement nobody ever wanted to hear, but one that Henry had no choice but to accept when his older half-brother rang with the news. When he then repeated it to me, the ground seemed to shift, the alcohol I’d so willingly tossed down my throat in the bar churning unpleasantly in my stomach.
‘Is he—?’
There was no need to finish my sentence; his face told me all I needed to know. Antonio was dead.
‘No,’ I gasped. ‘I can’t believe it. When?’
Henry blinked at me, dumbfounded, the hand that wasn’t clutching his phone shook violently. Even in the semi-darkness of the lane, I could see that his face was devoid of colour.
‘Mateo couldn’t get a flight tonight,’ he said. ‘But he said he’ll be here as fast as— Shit. Sorry.’ Staggering forwards a few paces, he steadied himself on the low wall.
I rushed to put my arm around him, no thought other than to comfort. I was reeling, whereas Henry was barely coherent, his wild eyes darting in every direction as he muttered to himself; reactions that reminded me acutely, cruelly, of Luke.
Luke. I would have to tell him Antonio had died, that he’d now lost both of his grandfathers. The thought turned me cold.
‘Come inside,’ I said to Henry. ‘You need to sit down.’
He allowed me to help him over the threshold and into the lounge, where I lowered him on to the sofa and fetched a generous measure of brandy. Having stared down at it for a few seconds, he raised his anguished face to mine.
‘This smells like my dad,’ he said, and started to cry.
Feet sounded on the stairs, and moments later Luke appeared in the doorway.
‘Hel— Oh. What’s going on?’
I hesitated for a moment, torn between husband and son, taking in the shock on Luke’s face as he registered his father’s distress. The hateful, selfish part of me wanted someone else to take over, a doctor or a kindly distant relative, anyone who could offer rational calm. But Henry was not capable of speaking, so that only left me.
‘I’m afraid there’s been some bad news,’ I began, quailing at the way he immediately tensed. ‘Antonio has...’ I paused as Eliza came into view behind Luke, pink hair askew, piercings glittering in the muted light from the lounge’s only lamp. He didn’t turn to greet her, nor did he respond when she put both her arms around his waist.
‘Has what?’ he demanded, with such force that it jolted me. Henry got to his feet and began to pace up and down, a hand covering the destroyed half of his face. The shock and grief had worked like an accelerant on this, most acute vulnerability; he might have been with us, his family, yet he could not bear us to look at him. I saw Eliza’s hands tighten involuntarily as Luke asked his question again, bellowing the words into the room.
I couldn’t help it, I cowered away from him.
Henry stopped pacing.
‘He’s dead, all right?’ It was close to a snarl. ‘Antonio is fucking dead. Am I making it clear enough for you? Are the words getting through that screwed-up head of yours?’
‘Henry!’ I said furiously, as Luke recoiled, his features a mess of sudden anguish. ‘Don’t listen to Dad,’ I begged. ‘He’s in shock, he doesn’t know what he’s saying.’
Eliza’s face crumpled, her arms no longer on Luke but wrapped tightly around her own shoulders. I could see the whites of her knuckles.
‘You’re scaring Eliza,’ I cried, as Luke advanced into the room, not stopping until he was nose-to-nose with Henry. They squared up to each other, a match in height but Henry so much broader, the thickness of his arms making Luke’s look like twigs, the glass of brandy still clutched in one hand.
‘What are you going to do?’ he taunted. ‘Hit me like you used to do to your mother?’
‘Henry, please!’ I was crying, great wracking sobs I couldn’t control. ‘Stop it.’
Luke was trembling all over, his lips bunched into a scowl, fists clenched.
‘How?’ he hissed, his spittle landing on Henry’s scarred face. ‘How did he die?’
‘A heart attack,’ Henry said, his voice every bit as rigid, each word inflicting a fresh blow. ‘I suppose you wish it had been me instead.’
Luke flinched but didn’t reply, his eyes narrowing as Henry continued to glare at him.
I heard Eliza whimpering and fought the urge to rush over and comfort her. I couldn’t risk taking my eye off the other two – not even for a second.
‘It’s not Luke you’re angry with, Henry,’ I pleaded. ‘Stop this now, both of you.’
‘Oh, but I am angry with him,’ said Henry, the menace with which he spoke eliciting another frightened moan from Eliza. ‘I know we’d all rather pretend I wasn’t, but for some reason – hell, I don’t know, perhaps because my dad just died – I wonder if it’s not better to be honest for once in this family.’
Fear had rooted me to the spot. All I seemed capable of doing was mouthing in horror, a voice repeated in my head over and over.
Stop it, stop it, stop it.
Henry took an aggressive swig of his brandy. He didn’t often drink liquor, and it showed. Almost immediately, he began coughing and was forced to break eye contact with Luke. I hoped it would go some way towards defusing the situation, but if anything, both men seemed angrier to have been interrupted. I kept waiting for Eliza to say something – do something – but she was as terrified as me. I needed to intervene more forcefully; it was my job. But still, I couldn’t seem to move. Pain snarled in my gut, the urge to flee overwhelming.
‘Antonio wouldn’t want this,’ I said. ‘He’d hate seeing the two of you fighting.’
Henry laughed without humour. ‘Oh, is that what you think?’ he said, speaking very slowly, making sure to enunciate every syllable. ‘I happen to disagree. My father has been telling me for years that what Luke really needs is discipline and proper boundaries. Ever since our wedding, in fact.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ I could feel the heat rising in my own body, defensiveness pushing aside any residual fear. ‘You’re talking about our son, Henry – he’s a human being, not a dog that keeps peeing on the carpet.’
Luke briefly closed his eyes, uncurling his fingers only to clench them tightly into fists once again.
‘But that’s just it, isn’t it? That’s all we do, Vee. Talk about our son, consult so-called experts, read books, go over his problems, what to do about them, how we can help him cope. It’s like a broken bloody cement mixer, churning on and on.’
‘Shut up!’ I almost screamed. ‘Just shut up.’
I could see Luke was deflating, the burst of adrenaline that had sent him striding across the room had dissipated, and he looked all of a sudden impossibly fragile. I took in his bony knees, messy hair, and mismatched socks, and saw only innocence.
‘This isn’t Luke’s fault,’ I said, though it was barely a murmur. ‘Henry, look at me.’
He didn’t – or couldn’t – comply, but he did at least take a step back, raising his glass to his lips for another swig of the brandy.
‘Come on.’ I stretched a hand towards Luke, wanting to tow him away. If I could get him on his own, I could explain; reason with him, tell him that his dad didn’t mean what he said, that it was wrought from pain, not truth. But Luke didn’t want to be led from the room, and calmly but firmly removed my fingers from his arm.
‘I think we all need to take a breath,’ I said hurriedly. ‘We’ve all had a big shock. Why don’t I make some tea? We can all sit down and—’
‘Mum.’ Luke’s tone was pure ice. ‘Just stop it. You’re trying to make everything OK,’ he pointed out, eyes never leaving his father’s. ‘But they’re not. Antonio –’ he paused as his voice wobbled – ‘he’s gone.’
I wanted to shout, to beat my fists against his chest, shake him. I could feel it then, the potent fury that coursed through Henry, the frustration we had both suffered for so many years, each of us trying to keep it hidden from the other. And it wasn’t just us – Luke carried it, too. It had simmered below the surface since he was a child, and all I’d ever done was suppress it. In him, and in myself.
‘Luke?’ Eliza had found her voice at last, though she didn’t sound like herself. Taking a few paces forwards, she came to a stop a short distance behind him, close enough that he’d know she was there, but not near enough to be within striking distance. She was wearing a Minnie Mouse pyjama set and, like Luke, looked startingly young. The fact that she was being forced to witness this was unbearable, and when she stole a glance at me, I tried my best to muster up a semblance of a smile.
‘Let’s go upstairs,’ she begged him. ‘Or out for a walk? Get some air?’
Luke didn’t respond, but his shoulders lowered a fraction. The fight was going out of him, the mist clearing, though he was still wary of what his father might do.
Henry, too, looked wretched. Unable to stop crying, he kept bringing up a fist to his cheeks and wiping the tears roughly away. His pain was palpable, and it cleaved my heart to see him in this state.
‘I think that’s a good idea,’ I said falteringly. ‘Eliza’s right. We’re all upset and—’
Henry turned on me. ‘Don’t you dare.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t you dare speak for me.’
I was taken aback by his venom, the implied threat behind his words.
‘I’m just trying to—’
‘Protect Luke? Gloss over anything nasty or difficult? I know. It’s what you do best.’
For a moment, I couldn’t respond. His accusation had left me winded.
‘I’m his mother,’ I whispered. ‘That’s my job.’
‘And you’re my wife,’ he said, voice cracking with despair. ‘But you didn’t protect me.’
Eliza pulled Luke away, her arms around his waist as she guided him out of the room. He was complying, but slowly. Reluctant to leave me alone with Henry, or unwilling to miss the showdown we were on the verge of having? All I wanted was to stop.
‘To love and to cherish,’ Henry said acidly. ‘That was it, wasn’t it? The promise you made.’
I bit back my tears.
‘What I want to know,’ he sneered, ‘is which one of those you were practising when your tongue was down Juan’s throat? Was it loving, or cherishing?’
I heard Luke’s intake of breath, Eliza’s scandalised gasp, and then it all came hurtling out – the fear, the pain, the fury, everything I’d been battling to hold back. I flew at Henry, fists raised, screaming at him to ‘shut up, shut up, shut up’. He did nothing to avoid the pathetic blows I rained down on him, standing immobile while I sobbingly ranted. I was aware of nothing but my own torment, heard only the cries coming from my own lips; all my restraint had gone, I was a creature of pure emotion, a beast unhinged, until finally, mournfully, I slid wretchedly to the ground.