Chapter 29
Donations to Assuage Guilt: How Frederick Beaumont Cleans Up His Image While His Company Destroys Oceans
Old Guardian headline
Grace
The Tube doors slid open, and I squeezed myself into a carriage with all the other commuters on their way home.
The air inside was warm and stuffy, and even though summer was still a long way off, it smelled unpleasantly of sweat.
The train started moving with a jolt. I held on to a pole with my right hand and pulled my phone from my coat pocket with my left before opening one of the bookmarks I’d saved in my browser.
With the poor reception underground, it took a while for the page to load.
It was an old news article about Frederick Beaumont. I wanted to familiarise myself with him—know thine enemy. He was one of the five main suspects on Ethan’s and my list.
Beneath the article’s headline was a photo of Beaumont.
It showed an older man with grey hair. He wore glasses and looked earnestly into the camera, as if owning a company worth billions was no smiling matter.
I was fairly certain I’d seen him at The Darlington before, though perhaps I was confusing him with one of the other older white men with thinning hair who swanned in and out of the hotel every day.
I read through the article. It was mildly interesting, but not the slightest bit revealing.
Frederick was a perfectly ordinary man, or at least as ordinary as a billionaire with a wife and three kids could be.
He liked football and supposedly had a soft spot for oceans.
He donated a fortune every year to organisations protecting coral reefs.
Activists, however, accused him of trying to buy his way out of his guilt, since his company was responsible for dumping a whole lot of waste into the seas.
A scandal had erupted a few years ago when an affair Frederick was having with his twenty-year-old nanny came to light. His marriage had survived the infidelity. What was it about these men that made their wives seem willing to forgive them anything?
I put my phone away when the Tube reached my stop. Along with a dozen other people, I left the station and made my way home. Once inside the flat, I kicked off my shoes and followed the sounds coming from Jason’s room.
He was sitting on his bed. The TV was on, but his eyes were glued to his phone. He had a grin on his face.
“Are Mum and Dad here?” I asked.
“No, they went to the cinema,” Jason replied without looking up. “Mum left us some money in case we want to order food. I want pizza.”
“You always want pizza.”
“Mmm,” Jason grunted absentmindedly, focussed entirely on his phone. I was pretty sure he was messaging with Tamil and couldn’t help but smile. I remembered my first crush, how new and exciting everything had felt. Almost like it did now with Ethan.
I left Jason to his phone and ordered two pizzas, which were delivered while I was in the shower.
Jason had opened the door, but by the time I came into the kitchen just moments later, my hair still dripping, he’d already retreated back into his room with his pizza.
I grabbed my box, sat on my bed, and put on one of my comfort anime shows to unwind after work.
I had just started the second episode when my phone buzzed.
A message from Ethan. Two days had gone by since our conversation about his past, and I still got goosebumps thinking about it.
Knowing what he’d endured as a child made his behaviour over the past years make so much more sense.
I just wished he would talk to Henry about what had happened to him.
Because even though he’d managed to climb out of the hole his dad had dug for him, it was clear he was still far from over the physical violence and emotional abuse.
If you could ever really get over something like that.
I doubted it.
Ethan:
I talked to Edgar today. He’s on it.
Me:
Amazing. Did he say how much it’ll cost?
Ethan:
No. It depends how long it takes to dig up the information we need. But if it’s too much, I’ll put something towards it.
Me:
Over my dead body!
Ethan:
I’m not a violent guy, but maybe I’ll tie you to the bed.
Me:
Are you into that kind of thing?
Ethan:
Not really, but I’m open to it, if you want to try?
The thought of being tied to the bed by Ethan made me flush, even though I knew he was only trying to distract me from his offer of paying Edgar. But I would manage alone. I not only had the money from Rakesh and the others, but also some savings of my own.
Me:
Let’s hold off on the bondage until I’ve found out what my favourite position is. One thing at a time.
Ethan:
You can come over to experiment, if you want.
Me:
Not today. I need a bit of time for myself. Is that OK?
Ethan:
Of course. I’ll live for a day without you. Probably.
Me:
You can do it! I believe in you!
What are you doing now?
Ethan:
Messaging you.
Me:
Funny. What were you doing before?
Ethan:
Playing piano.
Me:
Can you play something for me sometime?
Ethan:
Sure, but I’m pretty rusty. I didn’t play very much over the last few years.
Me:
Because of your dad?
Ethan:
Yes. I actually loved it, but my dad put so much pressure on me that it wasn’t fun anymore.
I was always afraid of messing up and not being good enough.
And then when I was sent to boarding school, I stopped, because I thought that would show my dad.
I really regret it, though. I’d be so much better today if I’d kept playing.
Me:
I get it. But look on the bright side—you got over your fear today and played just for yourself. That’s huge! And you’ve got loads of time to improve.
Ethan and I messaged for a while. I told him that Jason was trying to teach himself to play the keyboard with the help of YouTube tutorials, and Ethan offered to stop by some time to give him a few tips.
The idea of Ethan coming to give my brother keyboard lessons in his tiny room was heartwarming, and it confirmed what I already knew: This thing between us was no longer just a casual fling.
Maybe it never had been. It scared me. I’d always been drawn to his looks, but my weakness for his personality was new.
I was worried I could easily fall for this new version of Ethan.
The version that trusted me, and wasn’t afraid to be vulnerable.
The version that stood by my side, listened to me, and not only made me laugh but could calm me down in seconds when my own emotions overwhelmed me.
After nearly an hour of messaging, we said goodbye.
I plugged in my phone, which was down to only five percent battery, and got up from the bed to toss the empty pizza box in the bin.
Just then, the front door opened, and my parents came in, joking with each other.
Their laughter died when they saw me standing by the bin.
A bitterness rose in my throat, but I forced a smile.
I was glad my parents could be happy again, but I hated being the one who made them stop laughing.
The tension between us had only grown since our argument about Amy’s room.
I had apologised for disappearing without a word, but we hadn’t, of course, spoken about the elephant in the room: what we would do with Amy’s things, or how they had treated me since her death.
So we went on, awkward and uneasy, pretending nothing had changed.
“Hey.” My voice sounded dull. “How was the film?”
“Very entertaining,” my dad said, hanging up his jacket.
My mum held up a red-and-white cardboard bucket. “Want some popcorn?”
I shook my head. “No, thanks.”
“How was work today?” my dad asked, clearly trying to maintain some semblance of normality.
“Same as always.” Which meant mostly stressful.
The hotel bookings had been fluctuating wildly, depending on how the media was reporting on Mr. Darlington’s trial that week.
On top of that, there’d been more staff resignations, and an increase in people taking sick days.
I assumed it wasn’t just because Mr. Darlington’s trial was escalating, but also due to the presence of more and more reporters camped outside the hotel.
And then there were the regular protests, which made getting to work a nightmare.
“Good,” my dad said. That was it.
Silence settled between us. My mum avoided my gaze as usual, picking up the mail she’d brought in.
She started leafing through the letters and catalogues to look busy.
It reminded me why I was avoiding my parents.
It was better this way—for them, at least. They simply didn’t know how to deal with me anymore.
I was about to head to my room when my mum’s voice stopped me.
“Wait!”
I turned back.
She came towards me and held out an envelope. “This is for you.”
“Thanks,” I said, disappointed. I’d been hoping for something else.
I took the letter and went to my room. I rarely got post. Every now and then, I’d get a postcard from a friend or relative on holiday, but that was about it.
I examined the envelope and noticed there was neither a return address or a stamp, just my name.
Whoever it was from must have delivered it by hand.
I tore it open, and several photos slipped out. Photos of me.
“What the fuck,” I muttered. The photos showed me at various moments over the past few weeks. The first photo had been taken outside St. Thomas’ Hospital while I was on the phone with Kate. In the next one, I was on my way to work. The last photo had been taken right in front of our house.
My stomach twisted, and for a moment I was afraid I would throw up the pizza. Someone had been watching me.
Instinctively, I looked up at the window. All I could see was darkness and my own reflection. I hurried across the room and drew the curtains. What the hell was this?
With a sick feeling in my chest, I looked through the photos again and noticed that the surface of one was slightly uneven, as if it had been embossed. I turned it over, and sure enough, there was writing on the back.
What happened to your sister was an accident.
Stop asking questions.
Or you’ll regret it!