The Hidden Man. Charles Cumming

Mark stalled on the words. He had obviously rehearsed something and was determined to get it right. ‘All I was trying to say was this. More and more I’ve been thinking about the future, you know? Where are we gonna be ten years down the line? You and Alice have kids, Dad’s their grandfather, but because of all this shit that’s thirty years in the past his name can’t be mentioned at the dinner table. Meanwhile, he and I are getting on better than ever, but we’re still having to creep around behind your back. How long’s it gonna last?’

      ‘So you want me to meet him just so that you can have a better time of it when you’re fifty-five?’

      Ben regretted saying that, but for the sake of fraternal pride did not want to concede too early.

      ‘I’m just saying that you should think about giving him a chance. Not tonight. Tonight is fucked into a hat. But soon, Ben, soon. Otherwise, he’s just going to be this barrier between us, a bridge we can’t cross.’

      Ben smirked and looked up at the night sky.

      ‘I knew this was going to happen,’ he said. ‘Something like tonight.’

      ‘It was inevitable,’ Mark said.

      ‘Yes it was. And you know why? Because he’s talked you into it. You’re too soft on him, brother. You always want to do what’s right so that no one gets upset. Well, I’m upset. I got very upset in there. I embarrassed myself, I embarrassed you and I embarrassed my wife in front of everybody she works for. How does that feel?’

      Mark did not respond. It looked as if he wanted to, but was holding back for fear of making things worse.

      ‘You want my truthful opinion?’ Ben was not surprised to feel that there was still resentment inside him. Most of it was a desire not to lose face, and he knew that he was prepared to make a later concession. ‘I think the relationship Dad has with you gives him what he wants – an opportunity to absolve himself of guilt.’ From his jacket pocket he took out a packet of cigarettes and watched his brother’s face for a register of annoyance. ‘Now he wants to complete that process, supposedly to convince me of his worth as a father. But that’s not motivated by a genuine concern for my welfare, or Alice’s, or anyone else. It’s just a selfish desire to convince himself of his blamelessness in respect of the past. He’s a spy, for Christ’s sake. All his relationships are games, little intrigues and power struggles. Look how he’s manipulated you. For most of his adult life Christopher Keen has been making a living out of an ability to convince people that he is something other than the person he appears to be. Think about it, Mark. If he could do it to Mum when they were married, if he could to it to us when we were kids, what’s to stop him doing it now?’

      ‘Thanks,’ Mark said, his face tightening. ‘You think I’m that much of a mug?’

      Ben didn’t answer. He started walking towards the metal fence that ran along the western edge of the square. He had to move between parked cars.

      ‘You’ve got him all wrong,’ Mark said, following behind. ‘He’s not some puppet-master pulling the strings. Don’t you think people change? Don’t you think it’s possible that he might want to say sorry?’

      Ben stopped and turned.

      ‘Has he said sorry to you?’

      Mark could not give the answer he needed to without lying.

      ‘That’s not his style,’ he said, fudging it. They were now standing together on the pavement. ‘Dad just wants to make his peace. It’s that simple.’

      ‘Well, maybe he does,’ Ben conceded. ‘Maybe he does. And he can make it somewhere else.’

      There were lights on in several of the houses on Edwardes Square, oil paintings and chintz and Peter Sissons reading the news. Ben saw a man enter a yellow-wallpapered drawing room wearing bottle-green corduroy trousers and a bright red sweater. The man was carrying a tray of food and talking to someone in another room.

      ‘You don’t believe that,’ Mark said.

      ‘Don’t I?’ Ben stared hard into his eyes. ‘He’s doing what I always thought he’d do. Crawling back, mid-life crisis, wanting us both to pat him on the head and tell him everything’s OK. Well, it’s not OK. He doesn’t meet me, he doesn’t meet Alice. End of story.’