Page 119 of The Making of Jonty Bloom
“I know. Is it okay to be angry with him?” Jonty asked.
“I’d be shocked if you weren’t.”
“Hmm.”
As they got out of the car, they both shivered in the bitter wind. It bit at the back of Jonty’s neck and he shuddered. It was a cloudy day, the sea a dull grey line in the distance. Devan locked the car and Jonty took a deep breath. He strode down the path and up to the door with a confidence he didn’t feel, then pressed the buzzer. He put his hands behind his back, his fists clenching and unclenching. Devan wrapped his hands around Jonty’s and eased his fingers apart. As the door opened, Jonty straightened his spine. Devan stroked his palms, then let him go. A woman in her forties stood there in jeans and a tight-fitting green top. For a crazy moment, Jonty imagined she was his mum.
“Hi. I’m Jonty. This is Devan. I’m here to see my father.”
“You look a bit like him.” Her lips curved in a slight smile revealing crooked teeth. She moved aside to let them in, and closed the door. “I’m Tamsin, Gary’s partner.”
Jonty offered her his hand and she shook it, then Devan’s.
“He’s in there. We had to move a bed downstairs.” She pushed open the door of a room on the left. “It’s your wee lad, Gary,” she called and moved back.
“I’ll be right here,” Devan mouthed and squeezed Jonty’s fingers once before letting go.
Jonty took a deep breath before he walked into the room, but even before he crossed the threshold, he was hit by the cloying scent of sickness. Inside the room, it wrapped around him and slithered into his lungs—stale air, sweat, piss, decay…I don’t want to take another breath.His father lay propped against a heap of pillows in a hospital bed, the side rails up and a tray table loaded with medical paraphernalia at his side. His eyes were closed, his arms lay motionless on top of the blue and green checked cover.
Is it my father?Jonty had to work hard to recognise him. He was thinner, paler, his skin almost transparent. His hair was grey now and wispy, though he had the same hard mouth.
His father opened his eyes. After a moment, the glazed expression cleared. “I didn’t know eyebrows could fall off,” he muttered. “A fucking safety pin?”
“Hello, Dad.” Last night, Jonty had gone through a whole range ofwhat to say when I meet himand these two words were the best he’d come up with.
“I’m sorry you’re sick,” Jonty said.
Plus those words.
“Are you?”
“Of course I am.”
“Where’s this sudden interest in caring about me come from?”
Well, I didn’t fucking learn it from you!“I’d be sorry if anyone was sick. Well, maybe not evil dictators or mass murderers or whoever thought brawn was a good idea.”Or someone who beat his wife until she had to make a decision that fucked up my life.
His father chuckled, which brought on a coughing fit. Jonty waited until the spasm had passed.
“How long have you lived here?” Jonty asked.
“What does it matter?”
I’m trying to make fucking conversation before I ask youthequestion.“It doesn’t.” Jonty shrugged.
“So what are you doing these days?”
“I work in a hotel.”
“Carrying people’s suitcases?”
“Among other things. I’m the night manager.”Shit.Had that sounded defensive?What if it did?For some reason, Jonty thought his father already knew what he did.
“What do you want? Think we can be pals again now I’m dying? That you’ll get my money?”
“Obviously that’s why I’m here. Leave your ten million to me.” Jonty rolled his eyes. “I don’t want your money.”
“Then what do you want?”
