The Silent Patient(43)

“Okay. Are you sure you can’t tell me about it now?”

“I’ll see you later.” Paul hung up.

I kept thinking about it for the rest of the morning. What could be serious enough that Paul would turn to me, of all people? Was it about Lydia? Or the house, perhaps? It didn’t make sense.

I wasn’t able to get any work done after lunch. I blamed the heat, but in truth my mind was elsewhere. I hung around in the kitchen, glancing out the windows, until I saw Paul on the street.

He waved at me. “Alicia, hi.”

The first thing that struck me was how terrible he looked. He’d lost a lot of weight, particularly around his face, the temples and jaw. He looked skeletal, unwell. Exhausted. Scared.

We sat in the kitchen with the portable fan on. I offered him a beer but he said he’d rather have something stronger, which surprised me because I don’t remember him being much of a drinker. I poured him a whiskey—a small one—and he topped it up when he thought I wasn’t looking.

He didn’t say anything at first. We sat there in silence for a moment. Then he repeated what he had said on the phone. The same words:

“I’m in trouble.”

I asked him what he meant. Was it about the house?

Paul looked at me blankly. No, it wasn’t the house.

“Then what?”

“It’s me.” He hesitated, then came out with it. “I’ve been gambling. And losing a lot, I’m afraid.”

He’d been gambling regularly for years. He said it started as a way of getting out of the house—somewhere to go, something to do, a bit of fun—and I can’t say I blame him. Living with Lydia, fun must be in short supply. But he’s been losing more and more, and now it had gotten out of hand. He’s been dipping into the savings account. And not much was there to start with.

“How much do you need?”

“Twenty grand.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “You lost twenty grand?”

“Not all at once. And I borrowed from some people—and now they want it back.”

“What people?”

“If I don’t pay them back, I’m going to be in trouble.”

“Have you told your mother?” I already knew the answer. Paul may be a mess but he’s not stupid.

“Of course not. Mum would kill me. I need your help, Alicia. That’s why I’m here.”

“I haven’t got that kind of money, Paul.”

“I’ll pay it back. I don’t need it all at once. Just something.”

I didn’t say anything and he kept pleading. They wanted something tonight. He didn’t dare go back empty-handed. Whatever I could give him, anything. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to help him, but I suspected giving him money wasn’t the way to deal with this. I also knew his debts were going to be a tough secret to keep from Auntie Lydia. I didn’t know what I’d do if I were Paul. Facing up to Lydia was probably scarier than the loan sharks.

“I’ll write you a check,” I said finally.

Paul seemed pathetically grateful and kept muttering, “Thank you, thank you.”

I wrote him a check for two thousand pounds, payable to cash. I know that’s not what he wanted, but the whole thing was uncharted territory for me. And I’m not sure I believed everything he said. Something about it didn’t ring true.

“Maybe I can give you more once I’ve talked to Gabriel,” I said. “But it’s better if we work out another way to handle this. You know, Gabriel’s brother is a lawyer. Maybe he could—”

Paul jumped up, terrified, shaking his head. “No, no, no. Don’t tell Gabriel. Don’t involve him. Please. I’ll work out how to handle it. I’ll work it out.”

“What about Lydia? I think maybe you should—”

Paul shook his head fiercely and took the check. He looked disappointed at the amount but didn’t say anything. He left soon after afterward.

I have the feeling I let him down. It’s a feeling I’ve always had about Paul, since we were kids. I’ve always failed to live up to his expectations of me—that I should be a mothering figure to him. He should know me better than that. I’m not the mothering type.

I told Gabriel about it when he got back. He was annoyed with me. He said I shouldn’t have given Paul any money, that I don’t owe him anything, he’s not my responsibility.

I know Gabriel is right, but I can’t help feeling guilty. I escaped from that house, and from Lydia—Paul didn’t. He’s still trapped there. He’s still eight years old. I want to help him.

But I don’t know how.


AUGUST 6

I spent all day painting, experimenting with the background of the Jesus picture. I’ve been making sketches from the photos we took in Mexico—red, cracked earth, dark, spiny shrubs—thinking about how to capture that heat, that intense dryness—and then I heard Jean-Felix calling my name.

I thought for a second about ignoring him, pretending I wasn’t there. But then I heard the clink of the gate, and it was too late. I stuck my head outside and he was walking across the garden.

He waved at me. “Hey, babes. Am I disturbing you? Are you working?”

“I am, actually.”

“Good, good. Keep at it. Only six weeks until the exhibition, you know. You’re horribly behind.” He laughed that annoying laugh of his. My expression must have given me away because he added quickly, “Only joking. I’m not here to check up on you.”