‘Mind games?’ Charlie said.
‘OK, this guy Duncan, got the hots for Elaine, total wanker, he says to me with this supercilious smirk on his face, “What colour do you think love is, John?” I mean, what kind of bloody question is that? Then he says something like “What number is lust?”’
‘And decking him is out of the question?’
‘Totally.’
Charlie sighed.
‘Thanks for the invite.’
‘Charlie – what the fuck are you wearing?’
‘What – the hat? It’s a panama.’
‘Not the hat, though that’s bad enough.’
‘My highwayman’s raincoat?’
‘No, mate, not the raincoat. Even though it’s summer and that should be a tricorne hat to match. I’m talking about that suit. That vomit green and blue thing lurking underneath it.’
‘It’s paisley. It’s crimplene. What more is there to say?’
‘Well, for one thing, why the silver belt?’
‘Came with the suit.’
Hathaway looked down at Charlie’s shoes.
‘Patent leather. Nice.’
Charlie looked down at Hathaway’s own shoes, patent leather slip-ons.
‘Yours too.’
He looked at the long kaftan Hathaway was wearing, his trousers poking out beneath it. He indicated the high roll-neck sweater.
‘Bet you’re hot in that.’
‘The price of being trendy,’ Hathaway said.
When Hathaway and Charlie arrived, Duncan and his equally pretentious friend James were both engrossed in conversation with a couple of chicks sprawled on bean bags. Elaine was effusive in her greeting – she’d clearly smoked a couple of joints already – and reached up to hug Charlie. She kissed him on the mouth.
As she led them over to her room, Charlie murmured to Hathaway, giving him a quick punch in the arm:
‘She put her tongue in my mouth, you know.’
The Moody Blues were on the turntable, with a stack of other LPs above them on the spindle. Elaine plonked down on the bean bag between the bed and the old sofa. Charlie dropped on to the bed, Hathaway on to the sofa. Elaine passed Hathaway a fat joint. ‘Nights in White Satin’ ended and its spaciness was replaced, with a click and a clatter of vinyl dropping on vinyl, by the lugubrious tones of Leonard Cohen. Suzanne was taking him down to a place by the river as Hathaway took a long draw on the joint and remembered Hydra.
‘Do you have any brothers or sisters, Charlie?’ Elaine said. She was sitting up on the bean bag, leaning towards Charlie, who was lying on the bed, his head supported by one hand. Bob Dylan was singing about a joker asking a thief where the exit was.
‘Not living,’ Charlie said. Hathaway looked over.
‘What do you mean?’ Elaine said dreamily.
Charlie took another toke and passed the joint to Elaine.
‘I had a younger brother. He died.’
Elaine looked at the joint, looked at Charlie. Focused a little.
‘I’m sorry. Was it a long time ago?’
‘What difference does that make?’ Charlie bridled.
‘She didn’t say it made a difference,’ Hathaway said, up on one elbow.
Charlie gave him a look.
‘He died about ten years ago. He was nine.’
Elaine expelled smoke with a little cough.
‘Jesus. I’m sorry. What was it?’
Hathaway looked at Charlie. Charlie looked down.
‘He was…’
Elaine stared at him. Hathaway could see her pupils were wildly dilated from the drug and the low lights. Here it was.
‘He was burned alive,’ Hathaway said. Charlie took his time looking over at him. Hathaway dipped his head. Elaine was on her knees beside Charlie, reaching out to squeeze his arm.
‘I can’t imagine.’
‘I can,’ Charlie said. ‘I do. All the time.’
He looked over at Hathaway. His eyes were bleary.
‘I don’t recall talking to you about it.’
‘It was in all the papers. Bill, Dan and me all knew it was your brother, but you never brought it up so we didn’t say anything.’
Elaine’s eyes welled.
‘How did it happen?’
Charlie waved at Hathaway.
‘You obviously know the story so well, Johnny – why don’t you tell it?’
Hathaway looked from his friend to his girlfriend – her attention entirely on Charlie.
Hathaway’s voice was flat.
‘Charlie’s brother – Roy – was with him in Lewes one day guarding a bonfire. Other kids would try to set fire to bonfires before the fifth of November for a lark, so you had to keep an eye on them. Charlie and his mate – I’ve forgotten his name…’
‘Kevin,’ Charlie said after a beat, watching Hathaway as Elaine watched him. ‘You met him at the Snowdrop.’
‘Kevin and Charlie were freezing their asses off. They went down the street to a cafe to get a cup of tea out of the wind. They left Roy behind.’
‘Wasn’t he cold too?’ Elaine said.
‘Not for long,’ Charlie said.
Elaine reared up and put her arms round him.
‘Oh Jesus, that was such a bloody stupid thing to say. I’m so sorry.’ She kissed him on the face, and again. And again.
Hathaway watched. Charlie’s eyes were fixed on him over Elaine’s shoulder. Hathaway took another long toke. Elaine looked back at him.
‘Bonfires all had dens inside them back then,’ Hathaway said. ‘Secret spaces. Roy was in the bonfire.’
Hathaway reached over with the spliff. Charlie took it, looked at it.
‘Someone set the bonfire alight,’ he said.
Hathaway lay back. He heard Elaine sob. He closed his eyes.
Hathaway lay on his back, lost in the drug. Christ, it was strong. He was boiling hot but he couldn’t raise the energy to pull his roll-neck down. He drifted in and out of the room. He rolled on to his side. Elaine and Charlie were wrapped round each other on the bed, faces plastered together, Charlie’s hand up her skirt, her hip slowly rolling.
Hathaway watched, dope-befuddled. Time passed. Then:
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Hey, Charlie.’
Charlie, blurry, disengaged enough to look at Hathaway.
‘What are you doing?’ Hathaway said.
Charlie looked puzzled for a moment. Elaine was oblivious, rubbing her leg along Charlie’s body.
‘What does it look like?’ Charlie finally said, his voice thick.
Hathaway drifted. He looked again.
‘Elaine? Elaine?’
