Those Left Behind - 14. Press Friday

Afterwards, they thought of it as press Friday. The day the reporters came in earnest.

The doorbell went at 8am. Ludo’s first thought was that Alastair’s nephew was early. Leaving Arthur to supervise the final preparations for school (they had decided that they could not keep the boys off indefinitely), Ludo opened the front door, unthinkingly. There was an eager-looking young woman, Ludo’s first impression was of sleekness and bright red lips.

“Mr Wilson, Janine Stone from the Mail, I wonder if you would have time to answer a few questions?”

Ludo heard the words ‘Your wife’ as he shut the door. Arthur stood at the top of the stairs, with the two boys peering round him. In a way it looked unutterably comical and clearly Arthur had been in the middle of dressing as his clothes were uncharacteristically awry.

Arthur came down, “You get the boys assembled; I’ll tell them there’ll be a statement later.”

Ludo smiled, “You might like to do your flies up first.”

A grin.

Ludo sorted out school bags, all the detritus that the boys needed, and apples each for break, made sure of handkerchiefs and such. But in the background, he heard Arthur talking to the reporters, reiterating that there would be a statement. When Arthur finished there was a lot of shouting, demanding questions. It wasn’t nasty, but there was something unnerving about it, these people felt entitled to delve into Ludo and Damian’s private life. He wondered whether they’d done the right thing or whether they should have disappeared, holed up in a hotel in remotest Orkney or Shetland. But someone would no doubt have found them.

“How the hell are we going to live with that lot on our doorstep. Just leaving the house will be a nightmare.”

Arthur shrugged, “They can’t camp out on the lawn, that’s your property and you could call the police. You need to tune out the voices, don’t listen to them.”

The demanding, insistent voices formed a backdrop to their day, Ludo could even hear them when they weren’t there. Suddenly, his private life had become public property, people, well some people, felt they had a right to know. Part of Ludo wanted to curl up and pull a blanket over his head, but another part of him was furious and he wanted to go out there and give the reporters a piece of his mind. Neither approach, he realised, was a sensible one.

The phone went. He ignored it, doubtless a reporter. How to tell. He wished he had Damian’s chutzpah, to answer and simply invent something. Better leave it to the experts. Frances McSweeney, right. Ludo set to and emailed her explaining that they were incommunicado because of the reporters and to text or email. Almost by return came an acknowledgement, generic first, then one from Frances McSweeney herself. Here was the final draft of a statement. It would be issued later today, but by colleague, a criminal specialist whose office would be handling that side of things.

So, that was sorted. The doorbell went again. Ludo went to peer from the front bay window. The view wasn’t that good but standing in front of the door was a man. No-one he recognised. Feeling childish, but gleeful, he was tempted to squat down and shout through the letter box, but two could play at that game and he didn’t fancy having to field reporters shouting back. And they couldn’t stay camped out there for long, could they!

He watched as they fell back to the front gate. In reality, there only looked to be three or four. Right. Ludo drafted a notice in big bold lettering. Getting himself ready, he quickly opened the door, slapped the notice on it and closed it again. The notice proclaimed that there would be a formal statement later.

By the time Arthur returned, gleefully recounting how he’d been tempted to try running one over, they made a coffee, supposedly a rare treat to have an extra one.

“Can we cope with this for long?”

“I know, it’s getting to me already.”

“Yeah, I was almost shaking. I’ve stuck a notice on the door.”

Arthur smiled, “If they read it. And I wonder how the presence of a journalist doing an interview will go down?”

“Piss them off, I hope?”

Ludo’s phone pinged. It was a message from Jason, Alastair’s nephew. He was five minutes away.

In person, Jason was a surprise, he looked more like an accountant, slicked back dark hair that was receding, consciously retro horn-rimmed spectacles, and rather boring shirt and trousers. No jeans though. Arthur made fresh coffee, and they sat in the garden. It seemed almost cosy.

From a smart leather satchel, Jason produced a piece of paper. Typed. It was an agreement. Get it in writing, Frances McSweeney had said, so they were. Ludo had no idea whether it made any difference, but…

Formalities over, Jason produced his phone, set it to record and put it down. And sat back. He might be unassuming, but there was something reassuring about him, someone you could chat to. And Ludo noticed details that stood out, well-made leather belt and shoes, and lively socks, stylish details. The image was carefully crafted.

For the next hour or so Ludo went back over the last few months. Jason described it as a cosy chat, but it wasn’t long before Ludo got ratty. At first it was just the need to constantly come up with how he felt about something, what, where, how, details, background. But there was more that Jason wanted, and the guy persisted, simply sat there and calmly waited, and asked. At a certain point Ludo lost his temper, he felt Arthur put his hand on Ludo’s arm. Ludo exploded saying that Jason wouldn’t understand the pressure of being married and bringing up a son.

“So, tell me.”

And Ludo found himself talking about how Jackie would leave at 7am and return at 7pm on a good day. She’d be tired and refuse to talk about work; refuse to talk about anything sometimes, or just watch TV. If there was a discussion, it was about Damian. Ludo got Damian to school, checked the boy had everything, reading books, gym kit, fruit for break, money for lunch. Made sure the laundry was ready for collections (at least that was done for them), kept out of the way of the cleaner, did his own work somewhat sporadically, picked up Damian, got him settled, then finished his own work, put dinner in the oven (out of the freezer). There were breaks to order food online, sort new clothes for Damian and such.

Jackie would always be apologetic, and at the end of a project she’d take up the slack. For a while, but gradually work would take over. Project end would be celebrated with days when she was home early enough to do things with Damian, but then her arrival time would gradually slip, and she would be working more. There were always family days at the weekend, doing things together, sometimes simple things.

“So, she was a good mother?”

“When she remembered. She had a knack of finding little things to do yet made them seem a treat, special. Even at her busiest she made time for Damian even if it was just a story at bedtime. I think that’s why he’s so annoyed now. She has forgotten him completely or so it seems. But there was little time for Jackie and me, or so it felt, rarely time out together.”

“No date night?”

“Hardly ever, we were often too tired and would opt for pizza and a bottle of wine at home and fall asleep. That’s why the times I went to Arthur’s came to mean so much. It was time out, just us. Not sex or anything, at first, he was friend, and our evenings together were like time out of time. When I described it to Jackie, she’d be caustic, saying we were boring and suburban. “

“Do you think that was the problem?”

Ludo looked at Jason, “You mean our life was too suburban. Maybe. I think it lacked something. She was good with Damian; she and I could have a great time together then work would draw her away again. And so it went on.”

At the end, Jason thanked him and apologised if it was stressful.

“Shit. Did I make her out to be a complete bitch?”

Arthur looked at him, “Not at all. If anything, it was rather sad. Why didn’t you move into town?”

Ludo shrugged, “Move to London?” He shook his head, “Living here was her fantasy too, a nice house, walking distance to The Garden, the High Street, the station. A perfect existence.”

“Yet, she got bored.”

“Looks like it.”

They sat over more coffee. Arthur turned to Ludo, “I had a thought when you were talking to Jason. You mentioned the cleaner.”

“Shit, I need to text her. I messaged as soon as things went haywire, I’ll do so again, tell her we’ll be in touch when things calm down.”

The rest of the day was spent doing useful things around the house. Ludo had a message that the statement had gone out. Whilst Arthur collected Adam and Damian, Ludo had a call from Jason. The draft article would be with him soon and a photographer was coming round shortly. The article would be in The Observer on Sunday and be trailed in tomorrow’s Guardian. Ludo didn’t know whether to be excited or not. When Arthur returned, he found Ludo poring over a print-out of the draft article. Then as they got the boys a drink, Ludo explained about the photographer coming, cue much excitement.

“Well?”

Arthur smiled, “It reads OK, and you don’t come over as a complete toss-pot. Frances?”

“Has seen it, OK’d it.”

“So, we go?”

Ludo sighed, “Am I doing the right thing?”

It was a rhetorical question, but Arthur was prevented from a response by the phone. It was the mother of one of Damian’s friends, a woman that Ludo had never been particularly close to but who he’d always found to be refreshingly direct.

“Ludovic, its Felicity.”

“Hello?”

“Sorry to bother you, but I thought you should be aware that reporters have been phoning around.”

“Phoning?”

“Yes. Parents at school. Most of us have had a call, goodness knows where they got the information from. Makes it even more worrying.”

Ludo laughed ironically, “The school supporters’ newsletter online?”

She laughed, “Of course. Anyway, most of us told them to bugger off.”

“But there’s bound to be someone.”

“Precisely, so beware the morning papers.”

He gave a dry laugh, “Can’t wait. We’ve just done a formal interview; it will be in Sunday’s Observer.”

“Good idea. Put your case across. Look, must dash but if you need anything, just say. Even if it’s just looking out for Damian. That man of yours, Arthur, does sterling stuff at the school gates but he must need a break sometime.”

With that, she was gone. ‘That man of yours’, he told Arthur, and they laughed. It had gone from gossip to fact in double quick time. Blimey.

The doorbell went. Before Ludo could deal with it, Damian appeared, excited. It was the photographer; he had a large case and had flashed an ID card at Damian through the bay window. Clever guy. He was young, probably a junior used to doing the grunt jobs. But he was quick, friendly, and good with kids, getting the results he wanted with minimum fuss. Damian and Adam kept up a constant stream of questions which he answered calmly, all the while setting things up. When he realised that Ludo was staring at him, he grinned and said he had kid brothers himself and was used to it.

And then, suddenly, they were alone. No reporters outside, no phone calls, no more visitors. It was pleasantly warm, so they sat outside. The boys played some sort of complex game on the lawn as Ludo and Arthur had a gin and tonic.

Suddenly there was a noise, a shout, and a shock of red-hair appeared over the top of the back fence. Only briefly. He was presumably in the alley which ran down the side of the garden and gave access to the recreation ground behind. Second pass, there was a face, one they recognised, it was Gordy. Gordy?

Ludo went to the back gate, which they rarely used, unlocked and opened it with difficulty. Gordy was stood there looking a bit embarrassed, but also rather pink and out of breath.

“I figured you’d ignore the door if you’ve been getting reporters round. So, I thought I’d try the back” Gordy grinned, “It was stupid. Higher than I thought, but good exercise, though.” And he flexed his legs.

The boys were excited, but Ludo insisted that the adults be able to talk first.

“I figured you might need a bit of a lift”, Gordy grinned again and proffered a bag, “I’m afraid it’s a bit shook up.”

There was a bottle of whisky in the bag, judging by the label it was a single malt from a distillery that neither Ludo nor Arthur had heard of, but then neither were connoisseurs.

Gordy nodded at the bottle, “I doubt you’ve heard of it, it’s quite a small distillery. Went out of business in the 1950s and my uncle revived it as a community enterprise, giving the stuff away at first, but now they’re properly set up, and the whisky’s no bad or so I’m told.” He leaned forward, mock conspiratorially, slipping into overdone Scots accent, “Dinnae tell anyone but ‘Ah'm a disgrace tae ma race’, I don’t drink whisky, can’t stand the stuff.”

They laughed, thanked him, and invited him for a drink. It seemed the least they could do. He was looking surprisingly dapper, for someone prone to working in nothing but a loose overall; neat button-down shirt, trim chinos with a plaited leather belt that looked more than ordinary shop bought.

“My uncle gives me a bottle if I visit. I was up there recently and here it is”, he gestured toward it, “quite peaty, but light. Not to everyone’s taste. Still, it won an award last year.”

And indeed, the label had an award on the back. Despite the whisky they settled eventually, when the boys were tired, with a glass of red wine.

“My Father and Mother are tea total, and I was brought up like that. I never liked alcohol much, it didn’t seem much like a treat, even if it was forbidden. But then it was mainly beer and whisky I was trying. Then I went to France on an exchange after college, six months working in a garden in the Loire.” Gordy rolled his eyes, “It were eye opening, the food, the guys, the wine.”

“A hit?”

“You bet.”

“I thought that all Scotsmen lived on haggis.”

“Or pie and chips.”

“Not this one. I’d no idea what I was eating, and we never had much cash, so the places we ate were cheap and cheerful. But I loved all of it. And the local guys and gals were real wine buffs, even at 21, they taught me a thing or two. And a dark-eyed French boy broke me heart”, he sighed theatrically, “the first of many!”

It was pleasant chatting to him, about France, wine, boys, The Garden; everything but what was happening at the moment.

“Look, I’m not meaning to pry of anything, but if you need any help or anything. I figured there wasn’t much I could do but show a bit of support.”

“Thanks, simply having an ordinary evening like this is a big bonus.”

“Is everything OK, like?”

“As well as it could be.”

“Och, you’re probably bored to death with the whole thing.”

“In a way but…”

Arthur smiled, “It does rather have a tendency to lurch in unexpected directions.”

“We can tell you all about it.”

“If you want.”

“But it’ll be all be in The Observer tomorrow.”

“With a photo of us”, the two boys had appeared and caught the end of the conversation.

They had come downstairs because they were hungry. The three men had been chatting for far longer than intended. Arthur got up to sort out a meal and Gordy stood up to go. But he didn’t need much persuading to stop and eat with them. Arthur’s planned pasta didn’t take much extending and as he worked, Gordy entertained the boys with tales of The Garden.

Meal over, the boys preparing for bed, the men felt mellow.

“This is real cosy. Mind my asking, but is it permanent?”

They explained how they’d joined forces in the face of the twin onslaughts of police and press, and that they’d take stock when things were over.

Gordy looked at them, “That might take some time. My sister’s boyfriend was done for fraud, and it seemed to go on for ever.”

“Was she OK?”

“Oh, she’d not been involved, luckily, but you know the police are always at you.”

Arthur and Ludo nodded, “Tell us about it!”

“Then the law moves guy slowly, the arrest, the court hearings, the trial, the appeal, and such like. And each time the press came out, disturbing the peace. So, I reckon you’re in for a long haul.”

It wasn’t a pleasant prospect, but a realistic one. As if to blow away the gloom, Ludo opened another bottle of wine.

“Anyroad, I’m envious of anyone that can settle like this.”

“Have you never thought about it?”

“Aye, thought. Tried even, but I get restless, or things don’t click.” He grinned.

“Too much temptation?”

“Aye, there’s always a nice boy coming along to join the team”, another wide grin, “I had hopes of Alessio. Och, he’s friendly enough but has a girlfriend back home.”

“That doesn’t always mean anything.”

“I know, but he seems quiet, serious and intense”, a smile, “but with the cutest wee arse.”

“And you’ve seen it.”

“Oh aye, plenty of times. He’s not shy, you see. That’s what first gave me the idea. Truth to tell, I’m a bit smitten.”

“The forbidden or out of reach fruit always tastes sweetest.”

“You bet!”

It was a pleasantly convivial evening, and they agreed that a repeat ought to happen soon. Gordy waved away the idea of a cab and disappeared off into the night.

“Do you fancy him?”

“Huh”, Ludo goggled at Arthur, who grinned.

“Well, you were very flirty with him.”

“Flirty? Shit. I’m not sure I remember how to flirt.”

“Well, you did a decent enough job, there.”

Ludo thought, “Well, he’s cute enough in a cheeky chappie sort of way. I wonder how reliable he is?”

“Always another temptation.”

“Mind, that Alessio sounds quite a bundle too.”

“If what Gordy says is true.”

“You reckon?”

“Our Gordy knows how to spin a good yarn.”