Part 8 (1/2)

He didn't answer.

'Think.'

'A week or so?'

She hadn't seen him in two. 'You're agoraphobic now, are you?'

'No,' he said, annoyed. 'I just don't feel like going out.'

'Justin, no one except little old ladies with hundreds of cats stays home for a whole week. It's not normal. What are you doing now?'

'Nothing.'

Agnes sighed. 'I'll come and get you,' she said, and hung up.

When he answered the door his appearance shocked her. He'd lost weight and his skin looked faintly greyish. He wore rumpled sweats and his hair was long and greasy.

'Yuk,' she said, 'you look disgusting.'

'Thank you.'

His mother emerged from the kitchen with Charlie in tow. She introduced herself to Agnes, holding out her hand with a diffident smile. 'How nice to meet you.'

Agnes studied her face for a clue to Justin's pathology. He didn't exactly look like his mother, but then it was hard to find the resemblance when one person was so striking and the other so middle-aged. Like most people's parents, she looked worn and a little shapeless, her lips the same colour as her skin, her hair beige and feathered into layers. From the creases around her eyes, Agnes guessed she was in her mid-forties. And there was definitely something of Justin in her expression after all. Something hesitant, off-balance.

Agnes followed Justin upstairs to his bedroom where a boom box screamed out noise with a ma.s.sively overbalanced ba.s.s line. She wondered how anyone could live in such a pit of a room. It stank of male hormones and misery. She threw open a window, stood for a moment to inhale the cold clean air, then sat on the bed and looked him over.

'Don't you think you're taking this doomed youth thing a little too seriously?'

'Try living it.'

'There's a fine line, you know. Between looking romantically shabby and just looking horrible.'

Justin's eyes narrowed with anger. 'I'm not interested in your fine line, and it's not romantic. And you may as well leave because I'm not going anywhere.'

'Don't be snippy, it doesn't suit you.' She took his arm and flashed her most beatific smile. 'Come on, some air will do you good.'

She waited for his resistance to dissolve, then tugged gently on his elbow. He dragged his feet like a child as she steered him down the stairs to the front hall, where his grey coat lay on a chair by the door. Agnes picked it up and handed it to him.

When she opened the door he hesitated, turning to look behind him.

She sighed. 'Leave the dog. Let's go.'

But the walk was not a success. Despite the crisp autumn day and a bright blue sky, Agnes's voice gave Justin a headache, and his legs felt tired and heavy. When at last they reached home, he said goodbye without raising the subject of another meeting, went straight to his room and lay down. When his mother knocked, offering dinner, he pretended to be asleep.

He dozed, waking long after midnight to the sound of a regular thudding noise coming from his brother's room. After a few minutes, he slipped down the hall to investigate.

Peering around the door, he saw that Charlie was wide awake and studying a picture book. Across the room was a large, untidy heap of books that he'd flung from the cot.

At the sight of his brother, Charlie squeaked with delight. Face alight, he stood up and held out his arms. Justin switched on a lamp in the shape of a toy boat and swung the child up and out of his padded prison, plunking him down on the floor, where he sat wearing his stretchy sleepsuit and an expression of intense concentration.

'Blocks,' he said, pointing a chubby hand in the direction of the toy box.

Justin rummaged through the soft toys, musical instruments, games, sweets and lost socks, tossing out as many of the painted wooden alphabet blocks as he could find.

'Do you want to make words?' Justin asked, pleased with his own altruism. Poor linguistically challenged little sod. Maybe he could teach him to swear.

His brother busied himself with the blocks. J, S, T. He fixed Justin with an intent look.

Justin shook his head. 'That doesn't spell anything,' he said, reaching to find a vowel. 'Look, C-A-T, cat.'

The child sighed and s.n.a.t.c.hed the blocks back, adding more letters to the ones on the floor.

J, S, T, N, C, A, S. There was a shortage of vowels.

Justin's attention wandered. He was already bored with this game. The child added an 'E' to the end, and clapped his hands. 'Look.'

'Yes, fine, OK.' Justin drifted back into humouring mode. 'Hooray, well done, excellent. What have you spelled?'

He glanced at the letters, looked again, and froze. The blood drained from his face, and he stared at his brother. 'Jesus Christ, how on earth did you do that?'

The child, busy with his task, didn't look up.

H, A, T.

Justin stared. 'Justin Case hat? What? What are you trying to write?'

With a look of infinite patience, Charlie began to adjust the letters. 'Look,' he said again, with satisfaction.

Justin looked. The letters had been divided more carefully now, leaving large s.p.a.ces between words so there could be no doubt as to the meaning.

JST IN CASE WHAT.

He looked at Charlie, then down again at the words.

Just in case what?

Just in case something irreversible occurs. Just in case he was maimed, injured, died. Just in case something so horrible happened to him, or to someone he knew, that he would never, ever recover.