When they finished dinner it was still raining and Marcus couldn’t face going into the night. Mouse got out a Scrabble board and they played until the bottle of wine was empty. Mouse searched in the cupboards in the kitchen and found a litre of gin. There was no tonic and so they mixed it with orange juice. Soon they were both quietly drunk. Marcus let Darwin out into the storm for a moment. The dog trotted up the riverbank, sniffing the ground, then came back to the boat, soaking wet. Marcus wrapped him in a dishcloth and towelled him dry. He laid him down on the bench and he fell asleep again.
‘You can top and tail with me if you like,’ Mouse said. ‘You don’t want to go out in this rain.’
‘That’d be great. Thanks.’
Marcus brushed his teeth with his finger in the minute bathroom, then took a long piss, breathing through his mouth to avoid the chemical stench of the toilet. When he got back into the main cabin, Mouse was already lying in bed. Mouse’s head was squashed against the curve of the ship’s hull and he wriggled under the covers, trying to get comfortable. Marcus stripped down to his boxer shorts and lay with his back against Mouse’s legs, his face pressed into the musty cushion that Mouse had given him as a pillow. The boat moved every so often as gusts of wind swept along the water’s surface. The rain continued to drum on the roof and Marcus could hear the trees on the opposite bank whipped by the wind.
‘Do you still believe in the Course, sport? Are you glad you’re a member?’ Mouse asked.
Marcus had thought that his friend was asleep. He turned onto his back and stared up into the darkness.
‘I don’t know. I felt very strongly about it at first. After that first Retreat — what? — five years ago, I was evangelical, totally committed. Now I’m not so sure.’
‘Why not? What has changed?’
‘The Course was about us. About the four of us. I thought it made us better people. I thought it gave us something we desperately needed. But look at us. Abby and I are falling apart. I really think it might be over between us. You’re not happy, I know you aren’t. And as for Lee. .’
Mouse sat up in bed.
‘Lee was a mess. And I’m as happy as I’m ever going to be. And as for you and Abby, you’ll get over it. You’ve gotten over worse in the past.’
‘OK, but how much of Lee was the Course’s fault? And those new members. They look so young. They’re just kids. And they are being told that they can’t have sex, and they can’t be gay, and they have to strive towards perfection. The idea that we’re telling kids who are barely out of their teens that they’ll go to hell if they fuck someone at a party. . I just don’t think it’s right, Mouse. I don’t think I’ve ever thought it was right, but I just avoided thinking about it.’
‘People need the Course. Look at the way they embrace it. It answers a fundamental need.’
‘Just because people need something, doesn’t mean we should give it to them. I’m going to have to do some thinking. Shit, I don’t know. I miss Abby.’
He felt Mouse reach over and pat his thigh.
‘You’ll get Abby back by staying true to the Course. Being over in the States, seeing how people are embracing it over there, that’s what she needs at the moment. She believes in this more than any of us. More than David, even. Who knows, the two of you could be the next David and Sally. I know that’s what Abby wants.’
Marcus drifted off to sleep, lulled by the rocking of the boat and the sound of rain on the fibreglass roof. The wind lifted small, tightly packed waves on the surface of the canal and sent them slapping against the boat’s hull. Once, the huge gasometer let out a mournful sigh and Marcus turned over, his face pressed against Mouse’s small feet. Darwin snored, curled up on a pile of Mouse’s jumpers in a corner.
Marcus wandered through inchoate, directionless dreams. A noise reached through to his dream-world. He stirred in his sleep. He was aware of a presence, but couldn’t lift himself far enough out of his slumber to decipher it. He felt warm breath on his cheek. He half-opened his eyes and saw that Mouse now lay alongside him, his head on the cushion. One of Mouse’s hands was resting on the point of Marcus’s hip bone, the cold line of his friend’s signet ring clearly discernible.
‘Shh,’ Mouse whispered.
The boat rocked gently and Marcus felt himself drifting off again. Mouse’s breath was sweet. Alcohol, cigarettes and toothpaste. With his friend’s small, tubby body pressed closely against his own, Marcus slept once more. He dreamed of the fern den he had built as a child.
‘Morning, sport.’ The toaster popped and Mouse buttered two slices before topping each one with an egg. Marcus swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched.
‘Morning. What time is it?’
‘Almost nine. You were out cold. Darwin and I have already been for a walk.’
Marcus jumped up from the bed.
‘Jesus, I need to be at work. Fuck.’
‘Oh, take a day off. I have.’
‘I can’t. I’m sorry. Let me have a bite of that. Listen, would you mind popping into my flat and feeding the dog later? I think my spare keys are here somewhere. .’ He searched through his pockets and found the key that Abby had handed him at the airport. He had been carrying it around with him as a kind of totem.
‘Sure. I’ll go in at lunchtime. I could do with a leg-stretch.’
Marcus wolfed down his egg in a couple of bites and pulled on his clothes. With a wave, he lifted Darwin under his arm, jumped to the grassy bank, and set off up the towpath. When he reached Ladbroke Grove, he jumped on the bus and made his way home. He got dressed without showering, pulled a scratchy razor across his face, and poured a bowl of water for the dog. He realised that he looked haggard and hungover, but he strode into the office with the air of a man who has been working long hours in pursuit of the firm’s interests. His secretary went out to buy him coffee several times during the day and he left just before five, mouthing ‘Meeting’ and tapping his watch at his colleagues as he passed their offices.
*
When Marcus got home he took a bath in the silent flat and pulled on his dressing gown. It was barely dark, but the events of the previous few weeks had left him exhausted. He flicked through a series of mindless programmes on the television before selecting one at random and drifting off to sleep. When he woke, the room was dark save the flickering screen and Darwin was licking his face. He dressed and took the dog for a walk up Portobello Road. When he got back, David Nightingale was standing in front of the block of flats, pressing the buzzer repeatedly.
‘Hello, David.’
The priest turned to watch as Marcus came down the steps towards him.
‘Can I come in? We need to talk.’ The priest’s tone was curt. Marcus could see bags like yellow-grey oysters under the older man’s eyes.
They travelled up in the lift together in silence. Darwin sniffed at David’s trouser leg, whining, until the priest lifted him up and scratched him behind the ear. Marcus let them into the flat.
‘Ah, nostalgia,’ he said, seeing the photographs that Marcus had left strewn across the dining table, the boxes piled beside it. ‘Be careful, Marcus. It can do funny things to you, too much recollection.’
‘It was Abby. I need to clear them up. Do you want a drink?’
‘I’m fine, thank you. What I have to say won’t take long.’ The priest sat down on the edge of the sofa, his knees drawn together, his hands over his kneecaps.