Shape of Snakes

heard from him since.'

'Do you know where he is now?'

There was a small hesitation. 'Somewhere in London, I think.'

Prison? I wondered. 'And what of Alan?' I asked in the sort of reassuring tone that said I was more interested in my ex-pupil than I was in his father. 'How's he getting on? Is he married?'

Danny nodded. 'He's got a couple of kids, a girl and a boy. Never raises his voice to them ... won't even give them a smack.' He sucked moodily on his cigarette. 'It fucks my head to visit him. He lives in this great little house in Isleworth and his wife's brilliant. She's called Beth ... plain as a pikestaff and wide in all the wrong places ... but every time I go there I think, this is how families are supposed to be, with everybody loving each other and the kids feeling safe. It makes you realize what you missed.' His eyes strayed toward Luke and Tom, who were arguing over which CD to put on next. 'I'd say your sons are pretty lucky, too.'

I realized suddenly how vulnerable he was, and felt ashamed of the way I was using him. Until that evening he had been a name on a computer screen, an unremembered child from twenty years ago who had responded to an e-mail in the innocent belief that he was helping a lad in Cape Town complete a thoroughly trivial IT project. Yet he had no responsibility for Annie's death, and I wondered if he even knew that a black woman had died in Graham Road in '78. Certainly the name Ranelagh meant nothing to him, which suggested that both Annie and I had been long forgotten by the time Danny was old enough to understand that one woman had died on his road and another had accused her neighbors of racially motivated murder.

I followed his gaze. 'Luke and Tom might argue that you're the lucky one,' I said.

'How do you make that out?'

'Because their upbringing means they will never have your creativity or your commitment to proving yourself. Internalized pain is always a stronger motivator than security and contentment. Contented people take happiness for granted. Anguished people struggle to find it through self-expression. At least you have a chance of greatness.'

'Do you honestly believe that?'

'Yes.'

'Then why aren't you making your son's lives hell?'

The question was simplistic enough to bring a smile to my face. At the very least, it was predicated on the assumption that parental love can be switched on and off according to circumstance ... although perhaps for him that was the reality of childhood. 'Shouldn't you ask me first if I think greatness is a sensible ambition for a mother to want for her children?'

'Why wouldn't it be?'

'Because the odds are stacked against it. Anguish doesn't guarantee success, it merely offers the possibility. After that it's down to genius. In any case, as far as Luke and Tom are concerned, I'm guided entirely by selfishness. I want them to like me.'

He was unimpressed. 'Everyone's motivated by selfishness,' he said, 'including Luke and Tom. They behave the way you expect because they think they'll get something in return. Alan used to kowtow to my father to avoid a thrashing, but I'll bet Luke and Tom only kowtow for money.'

I nodded. 'More often than not.'

'Alan's kids are the same. They're barely out of nappies but they've got him wound 'round their little fingers.' He dropped his cigarette butt on to the terrace and ground it out under his heel. 'All they have to do is burst into tears and say they want ice cream and he starts emptying his pockets. I told him he's making an ass of himself, but he's so fucking paranoid about the way Dad treated us that he won't listen to reason.'

I wondered if Danny realized how confused his views on parenting were and what he meant by 'reason.' Spare the rod and spoil the child, presumably, although why, like so many people, he believed harshness was a better educator than kindness was a perennial mystery to me. 'How does your mother feel about it?'

'Christ knows. She's a Prozac junkie,' he said bitterly, 'so it depends what mood she's in at any given moment. It's a good day if she can drag herself out of bed ... as for having an opinion on something...' He fell silent, staring at the ground.

'I'm sorry,' I said again.

'Yeah, it's a mess.' He gave a mirthless laugh. 'I guess you're pretty disappointed.'

'About what?'

'That a type like me responded to Luke's e-mails. You were probably hoping for something better.'

'I never make those kinds of judgments,' I replied truthfully. 'If I did, I'd have to wear a label 'round my own neck, and that's not something I'm prepared to do. In any case, I'm not sure what type you think you are.'

He kicked at a flagstone, refusing to meet my eyes. 'Fucking useless,' he muttered. 'The last I heard of my dad he was banged up in the Scrubs for assault, but we've all been there at one time or another. I got six months for twocking-that's taking cars without consent. Alan got four years in juvenile for dealing ... both my sisters have done time for shoplifting. We're bad news. Poor old Mum used to get the cold shoulder every time she left the house because of the stuff her kids did.' He lapsed into a brief, unhappy silence. 'I guess that's why she doesn't get out of bed anymore.'

The admission clearly wounded him, and I wondered if he hadn't looked for us-or people like us, uninfected by anti-Slater bias-just as assiduously as we had looked for him. Yet, if that were true, why had he confessed to his family's failings so readily? The sly glance he gave me when he raised his head persuaded me it was a cynical test of my refusal to label him, and my sympathy waned a little. I guessed he enjoyed holding grudges and sought rejection for the purpose of fueling them ... and I wondered which of us was the more manipulative.

'I thought you were going to classify yourself as a struggling artist,' I said with a small laugh. 'I hadn't bargained on 'fucking useless.' Does that mean I'll be wasting my time if I visit you at the sculpture workshop?'

He gave me an unwilling smile. 'No. I'm a good sculptor.'