relax. Not to be interrogated."
"Understood." Harry tried another grin, but it did not seem to be infectious. "Perhaps we could meet tomorrow."
"I have a better idea. Phone my agent on Monday."
This has nothing to do with your agent."
"Really? Well, I happen to know David's father died nearly ten years ago. Which makes you an impostor. And probably a journalist. Thought this charade would get you an exclusive interview, did you? For the sort of paper that would employ you, I should think it would be a real scoop. Except it isn't going to happen."
"I can assure you '
"Don't bother."
"I only want to know what you and David talked about over dinner. It's hardly a state secret."
"No. But it was between him and me. And it's going to stay that way."
"My son's in a coma, Mr. Slade. Has been since the night he had dinner with you. He took an overdose of insulin and nobody seems to know why. Surely you can see '
"What I can see is an uninvited guest creating a disturbance at a private party. If you were really David's father, you'd know I told his mother everything I could. You wouldn't have needed to come here and give me a hard time. Which means your story's just an excuse. One that isn't going to wash."
"Looks like you've been rumbled, Harry," said Tina.
"You can walk out of your own accord. Or I can ask a couple of my friends here to throw you out. They keep themselves pretty fit." Slade prodded Harry's paunch. "But they can always use some extra weight-training."
Harry grimaced. "I'll go quietly."
Thought you would."
"But David won't. If that's what you were hoping." It was a hollow threat, based more on anger than suspicion. Yet the mere saying of it made Harry's exit seem, at least to him, less like a headlong retreat than a strategic withdrawal. "I'll make sure he doesn't."
TEN
A mild grey Sunday afternoon of light traffic and scant custom had given Harry ample opportunity to review what he had so far achieved and might yet attempt on his son's behalf. The more he thought about it, the more futile his efforts seemed destined to be. And the more misdirected. Hope Brancaster had probably been right. Depressed by a series of career reverses, David had deliberately taken an overdose of insulin and was now in an irreversible coma. There had been no foul play. There would be no miracle cure. It was as simple as that.
It was not even difficult for Harry to see through his own reluctance to accept such a conclusion. A son might give some purpose to an otherwise feckless life. To discover that purpose only for it to be snatched away again was too much to bear. Hence the digging for secrets; the probing for mixed motives and flawed accounts. So far, he had turned up nothing beyond the usual grab-bag of human weaknesses; nothing any more discreditable than his own role in the tragedy. So, why add to Iris's agonies of mind by hounding overworked doctors and hunting down lapsed friends? Why not simply accept what everybody else had already realized and Iris was well on the way to understanding: that David must be allowed to die?
Because of all Harry had missed, of course. The sleepless nights and playful days; the beaming baby and the sulking toddler; the growing boy and the full-grown man; his aspirations and achievements; his humours and his honours: everything that made and marred him. The life, in short, of David John Yenning. The thirty-three years he and Harry had shared on this planet without meeting. The bond that had never been broken because it had never been forged. It was a hard lesson and a worse penance. Once before, he had said to himself: "This is the worst, Harry, the least and lowest' But it had not been. Because this moment had still been lying in wait.
A pick-up truck drew into the forecourt. A curly-haired man in jeans and lumberjack shirt clambered out and began filling her up. A racing-green Jaguar pulled in behind him. Harry felt dismally grateful for the flurry of custom. Any interruption to his
"Understood." Harry tried another grin, but it did not seem to be infectious. "Perhaps we could meet tomorrow."
"I have a better idea. Phone my agent on Monday."
This has nothing to do with your agent."
"Really? Well, I happen to know David's father died nearly ten years ago. Which makes you an impostor. And probably a journalist. Thought this charade would get you an exclusive interview, did you? For the sort of paper that would employ you, I should think it would be a real scoop. Except it isn't going to happen."
"I can assure you '
"Don't bother."
"I only want to know what you and David talked about over dinner. It's hardly a state secret."
"No. But it was between him and me. And it's going to stay that way."
"My son's in a coma, Mr. Slade. Has been since the night he had dinner with you. He took an overdose of insulin and nobody seems to know why. Surely you can see '
"What I can see is an uninvited guest creating a disturbance at a private party. If you were really David's father, you'd know I told his mother everything I could. You wouldn't have needed to come here and give me a hard time. Which means your story's just an excuse. One that isn't going to wash."
"Looks like you've been rumbled, Harry," said Tina.
"You can walk out of your own accord. Or I can ask a couple of my friends here to throw you out. They keep themselves pretty fit." Slade prodded Harry's paunch. "But they can always use some extra weight-training."
Harry grimaced. "I'll go quietly."
Thought you would."
"But David won't. If that's what you were hoping." It was a hollow threat, based more on anger than suspicion. Yet the mere saying of it made Harry's exit seem, at least to him, less like a headlong retreat than a strategic withdrawal. "I'll make sure he doesn't."
TEN
A mild grey Sunday afternoon of light traffic and scant custom had given Harry ample opportunity to review what he had so far achieved and might yet attempt on his son's behalf. The more he thought about it, the more futile his efforts seemed destined to be. And the more misdirected. Hope Brancaster had probably been right. Depressed by a series of career reverses, David had deliberately taken an overdose of insulin and was now in an irreversible coma. There had been no foul play. There would be no miracle cure. It was as simple as that.
It was not even difficult for Harry to see through his own reluctance to accept such a conclusion. A son might give some purpose to an otherwise feckless life. To discover that purpose only for it to be snatched away again was too much to bear. Hence the digging for secrets; the probing for mixed motives and flawed accounts. So far, he had turned up nothing beyond the usual grab-bag of human weaknesses; nothing any more discreditable than his own role in the tragedy. So, why add to Iris's agonies of mind by hounding overworked doctors and hunting down lapsed friends? Why not simply accept what everybody else had already realized and Iris was well on the way to understanding: that David must be allowed to die?
Because of all Harry had missed, of course. The sleepless nights and playful days; the beaming baby and the sulking toddler; the growing boy and the full-grown man; his aspirations and achievements; his humours and his honours: everything that made and marred him. The life, in short, of David John Yenning. The thirty-three years he and Harry had shared on this planet without meeting. The bond that had never been broken because it had never been forged. It was a hard lesson and a worse penance. Once before, he had said to himself: "This is the worst, Harry, the least and lowest' But it had not been. Because this moment had still been lying in wait.
A pick-up truck drew into the forecourt. A curly-haired man in jeans and lumberjack shirt clambered out and began filling her up. A racing-green Jaguar pulled in behind him. Harry felt dismally grateful for the flurry of custom. Any interruption to his
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