‘Here?’
‘Yes. I told her you’d be here. But…’
‘But what?’
‘Look, she’s had a difficult life. I’m sorry to say that I found her in a bad state. She was… I think she was drunk and I suspect she’d taken something.’
‘What are you telling me? That my mother’s a drug addict?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know how bad it is. But she’s not well. And I realise that must be upsetting for you to hear. Believe me, I wanted to bring you better news.’
‘How do I know you’re not lying?’ Billy leaned back in his chair. As he did so, his left eye half-closed.
Christopher stood, knocking his chair backwards.
‘Oi,’ said the man behind him, the bald man. ‘Watch what you’re doing, mate.’
‘Are you all right?’ Billy too had stood up. He was gesturing, as if to help Christopher sit back down.
‘I… I need to use the loo,’ Christopher stammered. ‘Excuse me.’ He lurched, pushed his way through the busy pub.
In the Gents, he threw open the cubicle door and bolted it behind him. He slammed down the loo seat and sat down, head in his hands. The stench of urine filled his nostrils. His breath came raggedly through his open mouth, his heart pounding in his chest. He closed his mouth, sickened by the smell, but sat breathing like a racehorse all the same. The metallic taste of blood, the urge to vomit – he stood and retched into the bowl, but nothing came. He spat, sat down once more and put his head in his hands.
‘Oh God,’ he whispered. ‘Oh God, oh God.’
Ben was not Billy. Ben was Martin. He was Phyllis’s son – it was clearer than the tiled floor at Christopher’s feet. His eye, the way he had half-closed it on hearing something peculiar or suspicious. His eye, half-closed, revealed the rest: the brown hair that fell over his brow like hers did, his father’s green eyes, Phyllis’s nose and her lopsided smile. The rest came now, flushing in – Rebecca, her sunken face, her black hair, the way she had lit up for a moment before dying back on the dilapidated sofa cushions. That face, a sunken, shrunken echo of the woman in the headscarf all those years ago. Are you Billy?
No, I am not, he had said.
But he was. As Ben was Martin, son of Phyllis, Christopher was Billy, son of Rebecca, a mother he did not want, could not have, could not could not, could never…
‘No.’ The word perspired against his hands, clamped now over his face. He was weeping. He could not remember starting to cry, but his face was wet and his throat ached. ‘I’m Billy.’ His own voice came high in his ears like someone else’s. ‘I’m Billy.’
He had known. He had always known.
And if he had seen it, then so would Phyllis. She would see in Ben her son. She would see Martin. She must not see. She must not.
The squeal of the door. The splash of someone at the urinal.
He sat up, wiped his face with his hands. Think, Christopher. This is your life in the balance. Fight for it. Ben could still be Billy because Billy was who Christopher needed him to be. Hadn’t he, Christopher, lived as Martin, Phyllis’s son, exactly because that was what he had needed? Hadn’t he been happy? Hadn’t she? You can only live a lie if you don’t know or accept the truth. He didn’t accept it. No, he did not. What harm could there possibly be in sending Ben back to the US thinking he was Billy? It would not ruin his life. It would barely alter his life, over there, so far away. No. The only life that stood to be ruined was Christopher’s own, and he had come too far to surrender that now. No. No and no. Ben could be Billy. Ben would be Billy.
Ben was Billy.
Once whoever it was had left the Gents, Christopher came out of the cubicle and washed his hands and face. He dried himself with the paper towel and leant in to the mirror.
‘You are Martin,’ he said to his reflection. ‘And no one is going to take her away from you.’
* * *
Billy was at the end of his pint. As Christopher approached the table, he looked up and furrowed his brow in question.
‘Where’ve you been, man?’
‘Upset stomach,’ said Christopher. ‘Think I must have eaten something that’s disagreed with me.’
‘You don’t look so great,’ said Billy. ‘You’re sweating. Do you want to step outside?’
‘Actually, yes. I think a breath of air would be good.’
Outside, the sun had gone down. The day had darkened into the first hours of night. The air had chilled. Christopher took a cold lungful.
‘I’m afraid Rebecca hasn’t come,’ he said. ‘That’s disappointing. I’m sorry.’
‘Sounds like she maybe didn’t understand, if she was as you said.’
‘Be that as it may, I left a note with instructions. There was a man with her who seemed all right. He said he’d get her here.’
Billy thrust his hands into his pockets and kicked at the pavement. ‘Look, man. You seem like a real nice guy, but this Rebecca hasn’t shown up and I think I’m going to need proof.’
‘I have my birth certificate.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes. I can bring it to you tomorrow if you don’t believe me. And there’s something else. Come with me,’ Christopher said. ‘I have something to show you.’
They walked towards the town and took a left towards the canal.
‘Where are we going?’ Billy asked as they crossed the grass verge.
‘I didn’t tell you the final part,’ said Christopher, thinking quickly. ‘The mother superior told me how you came to be at the convent. You and your mother were brought there by the police. Your mother had given birth to you by the side of the canal, here in Runcorn, under the bridge. She must have been desperate. I’m so sorry.’
‘That’s terrible.’ Billy had stopped and was looking out over the black water. ‘She must have been scared as hell.’
‘Not much to see here,’ said Christopher, pushing on towards the bridge. ‘There used to be barges along this far, but not so much now. They still fish here though. You see them sometimes with their big green umbrellas and their buckets of bait.’ He stopped, waited for Billy to catch up. ‘I’m so sorry she didn’t come. I tried, I really did. I wanted to help. I can show you the bridge if you like. I can show you where you were born at least.’
‘All right.’
It was after nine. The shadow of the bridge was all but black. But Christopher could make out the oil drum, the old anchor, the rope. There was an all-pervading smell of damp that he hadn’t noticed before.
‘Here we are.’
Billy stopped and looked about him.
‘Thank God they found you both,’ said Christopher before Billy could speak. ‘God knows what might have happened. You might have died here. As it is, you’ve had a good life, haven’t you? You have a good life over in America?’