The Dinner Guest by B Walter (best short books to read txt) 📕

When we pull up outside the house, a few beats of silence pass, then she says, ‘I understand all of this must be a shock for you, and I can’t imagine you’ll want to go through it all now. I’m just … just very thankful you’re both safe. It’s all a terrible tragedy, and we’ve undoubtedly got some difficult days ahead of us. So let’s all get some rest, and tomorrow we can face the day with stronger and clearer minds.’

It’s sort of like a hybrid between a speech a coach does before a sports game and a priest at a funeral. I’m not in the right state to match it, or reply in any way at all, so I just nod then turn around to Titus. A single tear is falling down along the bridge of his nose. When he sees me looking he wipes it and then opens the door. Both Mum and I follow his lead and we all walk into the house.

‘I phoned your father,’ Mum says as soon as the door has closed. ‘He’s flying back from New York as soon as he can.’

I nod. ‘Will he be coming here or going to his house?’

My mother and father have a relationship I once considered unusual, but as the years have gone by, I’ve realised it isn’t as uncommon as one might think. They’re just more no-nonsense about it than most. After marrying in their late twenties, having me and then steadily growing apart, they opted for a compromise rather than a divorce: they have their own houses but they still do things as a couple. They go to dinners, to the theatre and opera, even holidays, but most of the year they live separated, albeit geographically close to each other. When he’s in London, my father resides in a house on St George’s Square, Pimlico, where I spent most of my time growing up, in between school and our country home, Braddon Manor. My mother’s house in Wilton Crescent was purchased during termtime when I was thirteen years old. I just visited home one day to find a removal firm carrying out boxes, with my mother supervising. She turned to me and said, ‘I’m moving house, darling. Join me in the car on the drive there and I’ll tell you all about it.’ And from that day on, my life was fragmented. Of course, I’m well aware that my broken home isn’t, in the grand scheme of things, anything to complain about compared to what some children go through. My parents never had shrieking rows, never threw plates, were never nasty or cruel to me or to each other. They just decided the best way to manage the latter part of their marriage was to do it separately. And because of the wealth my family is lucky enough to have, they can do it from the comfort of two townhouses in Central London.

‘Why don’t you both go and get some of your own clothes on,’ Mum says, noticing me looking down at the tracksuits the police have given us. ‘Or your pyjamas,’ she says this more to Titus than to me. ‘I’m sure you’ll feel more comfortable.’

Titus nods and mutters, ‘I want to have a bath.’

I know how he feels. It’s like we’ve somehow been infected with the horror of what’s happened – like the invisible residue of the shock and the brutality of it still clings to our skin.

‘Of course, dear,’ Mum says. ‘Would you like me to run it for you?’

He shakes his head. ‘I’ll be fine.’ He then disappears upstairs, leaving Mum and me standing in the hallway in the spot where he’d just been seconds before. I can feel the air alive with tension. With all the things she wants to ask, all the things I want to say and not to say. But again, my mother surprises me once again by saying, ‘You should go up with Titus. Keep an eye on him. You understand me?’

I meet her eyes. Then nod. ‘Of course.’ I start to go up the stairs, then turn back to her. ‘Mum,’ I say. She shakes her head, and walks away from me towards the kitchen. I pause on the stairs for a moment, then go back down the two I had climbed and follow her.

‘I would have thought … you’d have wanted to talk.’

She pours herself a glass of water and is eyeing me over the gleaming countertop. ‘I told you to go upstairs and keep an eye on Titus. There’ll be plenty of time to talk later when your father’s home. I doubt you’d like to go through the whole business more than once, so I suggest you go and get some rest.’

I look at her, uncertainty and concern bubbling somewhere within me.

‘Please, Charles. I do have questions I want answered, particularly about Rachel and Titus. But now isn’t the time. Please go and check on your son. I really don’t think I should have to say it again.’

Our eyes remain locked for another few seconds. Then I relent and leave the kitchen, taking the stairs two at a time.

Titus shouts at me when I enter the bathroom without knocking. He pulls his legs up close and looks at me with outrage on his face.

‘I’m sorry. I just wanted … to make sure you were OK.’

His head turns away from me, his eyes resting on the still gushing tap. There’s something strangely comforting about the sound of the running water, and I feel crushingly exhausted all of a sudden. I sit down on the closed loo seat and put my head in my hands. ‘I think we should talk,’ I say to the floor.

I hear the water stop, leaving an odd ringing silence between us. Then: ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ He says it in the small voice of a boy years younger than him. It reminds me of the rare times when he’s got into trouble