The Wolf Border(83)

It’s a bald, cheap play, using the baby as leverage, but she doesn’t care; it’s vital that he isn’t swept along in any undertow.

Lawrence?

No. I’ve said I can’t.

OK. We’ll come down there then.

No, he says.

I’d be happy to.

No.

Her frustration begins to mount. It occurs to her that she should let him go, that her pride is simply being knocked – her authority and influence are not working. He is an adult; he can take care of himself. But deep down, she doesn’t believe that. Her instincts have branched; they have had to as a mother. Whether he wants it or not, Lawrence needs help – and some part of him must know it, he called her, after all. He tries to hang up again. He is late for something, he says, needs to meet a friend. She stops him, asks again – Will you come to stay? Charlie’s favourite uncle . . . – begging almost, but she does not care. His tone softens a fraction.

I know you’re trying to be nice, Rachel, but don’t. I don’t deserve it. You don’t want me there. I’m a mess. It would be really bad for the baby.

She ignores the comment. She begins to talk at him. She talks steadily, fluidly – she can do this now, thanks to Charlie, who has broken the seal. He doesn’t want sympathy or absolution, that much is very clear, so she makes the case selfishly, appeals to his old sense of duty: the weak spot. I want you here. Come and help me. I’m really tired. You’re so good with him, and I don’t feel I’m coping. Twice more he tries to extricate himself. His desperation to get away is painful; she droops at the table, feels physically vulnerable. There’s a wound in her now it seems; all the people she cares for can hurt her. She keeps talking, asking her brother to come, for her sake, almost incanting it. He interrupts and his voice cracks.

Please don’t, Rachel. Don’t. I’ll be no good around a baby. I don’t want to f*ck that up, too. Please don’t make me.

She does not understand. Only later will she understand.

What? Lawrence, no. You are a fantastic uncle. Charlie loves you. I –

He is weeping now, muffled, and she feels her eyes sting. Someone passes him on the road, makes some comment that she cannot hear, asking him if he is alright perhaps, or calling him a name.

Lawrence, she says, as firmly as she can. I’ll see you tomorrow.

He arrives the following night, by taxi, with one small bag. Emily must have kept the Audi, she thinks, as well as the house. Any relief she had anticipated in seeing him quickly ebbs. He looks extremely run down, thin, ten years older. His face is greyish and furtive. There’s a small black scab near his upper lip. He follows her into the kitchen, puts down his bag.

Sorry it’s late. The trains were f*cked up.

That’s OK.

The baby has already been put to bed. He shakes his head when she offers to get him up. She gives him a beer and starts to make supper. Her plan was to gently investigate the situation, enquire about the possibilities of patching things up with Emily. But he is in no fit state. Terrible, lasting damage seems to have occurred. Lawrence cuts onions listlessly, standing next to her at the counter. He finishes the beer and opens another. There’s an odd smell to him, not unwashed, not unsanitary, but slightly sick, metallic – bad breath, or the tinge of blood.

Small enough? he asks.

Great. Could you do the garlic?

She passes him a bulb. She tries not to watch him. The skin on his arms looks dull, and there are more picked sores. The unspoken weighs heavily, and she begins to feel out of her depth, his depression seems much more serious than she anticipated. Lawrence dices a couple of cloves, puts the knife down on the board. He sits and drinks the beer while she finishes the meal. At the table the conversation never gets going. Lawrence makes little effort, and she does not push him. He eats mechanically, looking at his plate, taking no enjoyment in the food. He is very pale. He drinks two more beers – too many for the tempo of the evening. At one point she catches his eye, not confrontationally, but with intent. You can tell me. He looks away. He stands and clears the plates.

Don’t worry; just leave them on the counter. I’ll load them up later.

He sets them down. The knives and forks skitter off and clatter on the countertop. She sees him wince.

Do you want some coffee?

She is tired but willing to stay up, if it means helping him, or just being companionable.

No, that’s OK.

They move to the lounge, sit by the fire. Her brother sits uncomfortably in the armchair, leaning awkwardly to the side and staring hard into the flames, as if he would, if he knew how, consume their lustre. The evening wastes away without television, talk, or progress. Soon, Lawrence excuses himself and goes to bed, and Rachel follows his lead.

In the early hours she hears him get up, move around the room, and use the bathroom. He goes downstairs. The front door opens and shuts. She listens for a car engine, in case he has called a taxi and is leaving surreptitiously, but it is quiet. She checks on the baby, goes downstairs, and opens the front door. A black wall of night – beyond which she cannot see him. Cool, after-rain dampness. The trees rustle invisibly. Even this far inland, she can smell traces of the sea: briney, ionic. She peers down the lane, waits for her eyes to adjust. The trees begin to loom, shouldering out of the darkness. There is no sign of him. He must simply be restless – why should he not be? – and needs some air. She closes the door, leaves it unlocked, and goes back to bed. She is dozing when she hears the stairs creak.