For two days he secludes himself in the Wilton Road flat and he works eight hours a day on the book. He writes in two-hour shifts, setting the alarm on his mobile so that he knows when his shift is over and he can get up from the computer screen. He chooses coffee over tea, and when his concentration begins to waver he does not distract himself with quick snacks of cheese and crackers, or a microwaved bowl of soup. He walks to the window, and then stretches out his hamstrings by bending forward and lowering his head on to the windowsill. He holds this pose for two minutes, or until he feels dizzy, then he walks purposefully back to his desk. By the end of the second day he has begun to put some substance into the heart of the book, but he is now worried that changing the title of the opening section from ‘Motown and the Suburbs’ to ‘Dancing in the Streets’ might be too cute; after all, how many readers will remember Martha Reeves and the Vandellas and recognise the oblique reference to her hit song of the same name? For the moment, he chooses to stay with the original title, for he is determined to steer clear of those annoying self-referential headings that usually burden the academic articles that he has xeroxed and saved over the years. They tend to involve either a colon or parentheses, as though the writer is trying to signal his or her cleverness before the piece has even begun. ‘Re-Recording Pain: Black and Blue and Makes Me Wanna Holler.’ Or, ‘Distant Lover(s): Masculinity, Evasion and the African-American Voice’. Midway through the third day he realises that he is about to run out of food and he will therefore have to venture outside, but this is good timing for tonight he has an appointment that he cannot break. Just two more hours, then he will shower and dress carefully. He already feels some relief, as though he has paid penance for his sins by reapplying himself to his work with such single-mindedness. At least with the work there is no awkwardness to negotiate and no guilt to absorb, for he ties himself securely to a routine which allows him little opportunity to wander in either mind or body.
Annabelle opens the door and quickly looks him up and down without saying anything. He wants to shake his head for there is no subtlety to her greeting. She still does not trust him, despite the fact that he knows full well how to dress appropriately.
‘Well,’ she says. ‘Are you coming in?’
‘How about “hello” or “good evening” or something?’
Annabelle throws him a fake smile. ‘Hello.’
‘Well, I can’t just march in. It’s your place now, or so you keep telling me. Maybe Mr Documentary Film Editor is in there in his boxer shorts.’
‘Very funny.’
She steps to one side, and as he passes by he smells her slightly overpowering scent. He can never remember the name of her perfume, but he knows that it is expensive. No doubt Bruce remembers.
‘I’m just saying that “good evening” would have been nice. Has the cat got your tongue?’
‘Jesus, Keith, you sound like an extra from some sitcom. What kind of phrase is that?’
He stands at the foot of the stairs as she begins to slip her raincoat on over her blue dress. He hasn’t seen this dress before and it looks good on her, but he knows that it is best to say nothing about the dress for clearly she is in one of her combative moods and even the most generous of compliments is likely to be turned against him.
‘Well, do you want to say hello to Laurie?’
‘Where is he?’
Annabelle tosses her head in the direction of the staircase.
‘Laurie, your father is here.’ There is no reply. ‘He’s probably got his headphones on again when he’s supposed to be doing his homework.’
‘Leave it, I’ll speak to him later.’
Annabelle furrows her brow. ‘Leave it? I don’t think so. I told him you would be coming around.’
She begins to trudge upstairs, but as she does so Laurie appears on the landing with his headphones pulled down around his neck and the thick black cable dangling like a loose thread.
‘I was just coming to get you.’
Laurie shrugs, but he makes no effort to come downstairs. ‘All right, Dad?’
‘How’s your schoolwork?’
‘You tell me. Isn’t that what you’re here for?’
Annabelle sighs loudly. ‘Are you not going to come down here and talk to us properly? I’ll get neck ache if you continue to stand up there.’ She looks at her watch. ‘Oh Christ, we’ve got to go anyhow. Are you going to be all right?’
‘I’m seventeen, Mum.’
‘Which is why I’m asking.’
‘Have fun at parents’ night. I can’t wait to hear what those tossers think.’ He pauses. ‘Not.’
He looks up at his son.
‘“Not”? What kind of English is that?’
‘Don’t start, Dad. You know what I mean. Check you later.’ They both stare as Laurie slides the earpieces of his headphones up and over his ears, and then turns and shuffles out of sight.
Annabelle shakes her head. She finishes buttoning her coat as she descends the stairs.
‘And you don’t think there’s a problem?’
‘He’s just styling, that’s all. It’s what the youths do.’
‘“Styling”? What the hell is that? He’s not a bloody case study, he’s your son.’
He shifts his weight on to his left side and pushes his hands into his trouser pockets. He doesn’t want to point, for that always sets her off.
‘Listen.’ He pushes his hands an inch or two deeper into his pockets. ‘I know he’s my son, and I know something about what he’s going through.’
‘Well maybe you could explain it to me because it’s not that easy to live with.’ She throws a quick glance upstairs. ‘Sometimes he looks at me as though I’m stupid. I don’t just mean as though I don’t understand, I mean as though I’m really stupid, and I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.’
He stares at Annabelle and recognises the symptoms; the faint tremor to her voice, and the ever so slightly buckled lower lip as her anxiety rises. Annabelle becomes quieter as she gets angrier.
‘Look, we’d better go and hear what his teachers have to say. We can talk about it afterwards, okay?’ Annabelle stares at him. ‘I’m not trying to avoid the subject, but you said yourself that we should go, right? I don’t want to be late on top of dressing like this.’
‘Who said there is anything wrong with the way you’re dressed?’
‘Annabelle, you looked at me like I was something the dog had dragged in.’
‘What’s with all the animal references? Don’t tell me you’ve started watching Zoo Nation?’
‘What’s Zoo Nation?’
‘A programme on the television. But it doesn’t matter, you’re right. We should go. And I never said anything about your clothes.’ She looks him up and down again. ‘You look okay.’
‘Okay? Just “okay”?’
‘Jesus, should I take a picture?’
He opens the door and gestures to her. ‘After you, Madam.’
Annabelle brushes by him shaking her head.
‘Stop pissing about, Keith. I’m really not in the mood, okay.’
The wine bar is almost empty so they are able to get a booth in the window. The candle flickers crazily, as though caught in a gale, and he watches the flame dance until he can take no more. He reaches in and quickly closes his forefinger and thumb on the wick, which leaves a black mark on his hand.
‘You’re not even listening to me, are you? No wonder Laurie is the way he is.’