Chapter XIX

Upon returning home, Richard sat down to a drink by the beaming fire of aged logs. He wasn't tired in a way that sleep would relieve.

The front page of the tabloid that lay draped over the arm of his seat informed him that some public figure was rumoured to have left for Rome, and grey hair was to be a thing of the past, and a light carriage was to be sold; but all these little snippets did not give Richard the quiet, ironical pleasure they usually did. The evening had brought everything back to his mind and he grew thoughtful.

Upon the mantelshelf before him was a timepiece, abreast the phone. The phone. Richard's gaze was continually fastening itself upon it, till the long shape of it became the very centre of the room; and as he drank, he dreaded the moment it would ring. Although he knew it would only ring by morning. Here, in the quiet of Richard's study, where everything that was not grave was irrelevant, and where the atmosphere was that of a tomb, the phone and its promise of a call changed their intent from a thoughtless habit to that of a grave threat.

Since weeks, Richard Crawford had felt himself slowly getting wrapped in the orient of that threat. It was unexplainable and excruciating — the contemptible thing suggesting possibilities that made him shiver although Richard did not completely understand it himself; why would he dread a harmless piece of utility. Perhaps it was simply the suggestion of the phone? The suggestion of his parents' presence and influence?

But such an explanation did not strike Richard as a possibility.

It was foreign to realize his fright, and in the process settle for it. When Richard went to bed, he contemplated disconnecting the phone. He was conscious of its presence, even when his back was turned upon it. It was the first time since his moving here that Richard had felt so unsettled in the apartment. And the same intuition that caused him to think it was a bad omen prevented him from regarding it as a serious matter. To him, it was just another peculiarity that his tired mind couldn't handle.

He looked again in the direction of his bedroom door. Two doors down the hall from the study.

A vision of his father picking up the phone and calling him, haunted Richard. His father was a misty shape, and he might as well have been, considering that Richard's real father was at that moment sound asleep and oblivious of all; but whenever Richard dozed, he took form.

The moon shone that night and its light was not of a usual kind. His curtains admitted only a reflection of its rays, and the pale sheen had that reversed direction which the lanterns below gave, coming upward and lighting up his ceiling in an unnatural way, casting shadows in strange places.

He remained awake. Richard suddenly wondered if he might indeed just disconnect the phone and pondered upon this for a while, seeing if he could talk himself out of it. Richard then pushed back the sheets, slid his bare feet upon the cool tiles, and rushed down the hall. He employed himself by the mantle and then stood. Stood before the phone. He then shook himself — reached for it. It was just a phone, Richard told himself. There was nothing more there.

Richard looked, as he had a hundred times the preceding evening, at the insistent imputation: "He's not here," he said aloud.

Richard then blew out a long breath, horrified to hear how it tremored. He passed a shaking hand through his hair and caught sight of his reflected features in the looking-glass above the mantle; his eyes stood wan. He saw how closely compressed his mouth was, and that his eyes were wide-spread and vacant. Feeling uneasy and dissatisfied with himself for this nervous excitability, he returned to bed.

Dawn drew on. Richard arose and dressed himself. He descended the stairs and went out before the sun had well enough risen and the phone had time to ring. It was only when he took to the street that he paused and looked back. Richard imagined he would be able to hear it, even here, on the pavement. He then shook his head and walked on.

That afternoon, Richard's mood had much improved, and he came back home in excellent spirits, directing Christian to lay out his dinner even as the man attempted to usher Richard's attention to his missed call, and went nevertheless content to sleep that night.

While Richard Crawford sat at his breakfast the following morning, a knock came to the door, Christian entered, and notified him that his usual call had come in. Richard got up and looked out into the street. He had not reminisced all that much upon his elusive behaviour yesterday, and consequently found that he did not much care for it. The ease with which he had been able to evade the call made that Richard found it difficult to greatly care for the initial insolence of his conduct. The low morning sun was smitten scarlet into the windows on the opposite side of the street and their panes glowed like plates of heated metal. He breathed deeply.

When entering the library, Richard was at once reminded of the dreams of that eventful night. He trembled slightly and reached for the receiver.

"Father," he called, slightly impatient and not waiting for the man to commence.

"Good morning, boy."

His father was in a foul mood. He sounded pained. Richard inquired: "How's the tooth?"

"Worse. Much worse."

"So sorry to hear it."

"And Miss Winton's gone. Ran off with one of the garden staff. I don't know how Miss Hanbury is going to manage the kitchen without her. Chorins' looking for new one, but Hanbury doesn't seem keen on finding a new kitchenmaid, been saying that she would come back. Your mother thinks so too."

"I see."

"Did you read the thing about Mr Davis from Davis&Colbert?" His father's voice faded out as the old man crashed around on the other end, evidently setting the phone down to move somewhere before picking it back up, "—and in any case it says here that he makes a very moving appeal to all of his potential investors to do all they can to assist in the manufacture of his new aircraft. And he's upset because someone has suggested that he supports the rich against the poor. He says he denies the difference of class distinctions, I quote: 'This idea has been wickedly fostered by the working classes!' Well!" His father halted and seemed to wait on Richard for a reaction. But Richard just made a noncommittal noise. His father then continued: "They're commenting on the Colemans' case too. About time. I do reckon they put old Colemans on medication. Same with that Guillory."

"Father..."

"Listen, that Guillory.... Richard, what he stands for— what he is— is decimated. Worse than decimated. Unnatural."

"Father—" Richard passed a hand over his eyes, closing them, struggling to keep his composure as impatience and confusion made themselves known, clutching in his chest, "not again, I beg you. How can you say that when you don't even know his son—"

"Richard, I'm serious."

With that, the creeping cold in Richard's chest morphed into sharp pain and Richard had to swallow before he could persuade himself to respond, biting back the insults he wanted to spit out and instead making do with, "yes father."

"See it as a warning."

"About what, old man! You're telling me it's not pertinent— but I — I can't possibly understand your obstinacy!"

There was a pause then, thick, and stagnant, within which Richard's lungs refused to fill with air, and the pain in his chest sharpened.

"Would you care to repeat that?"

"I—"

"Richard?"

Something snapped within. "You're seeing things that aren't there, and—! Even if there were—" Richard made a vehement gesture—"what would it matter?" He felt breathless, powerless, and utterly unheard.

"Good. I heard you twice. You hear this once. You will do as I say, or I will leave you without a penny. Now get yourself together and build something instead of indulging like a coward— what is it Edwards? —"

"Father—!"

He heard hushed voices. The clatter of a pen. Richard looked about the room breathing deeply, easing his grip on the phone, and when his father's voice returned, he sounded resolute but oh so tired.

"You wasted your time," he said. "Pretending you were going to achieve something, while I have it on good account that you have been loafing around for the past months."

"That's all lies!"

"You spent your time with obscenity!"

"My life isn't obscene!"

"It's in the manner of a washout. That's obscene enough for me."

"Father—"

"I have been indulging you far too much. You will cease this juvenile game of yours or I will cut you off your allowance."

Richard's thoughts stuttered to a halt, rapture draining nauseatingly from him at those last words. "As though I wanted your money! It's heinous."

"Don't speak to me like that!"

"I don't need you!"

"Richard! Don't you dare hang up on me, you libertine—!"

"You're absurd!"

"You cannot possibly believe—"

"You're pathetic!"

"Richard!"

Richard returned the receiver with force. He stumbled back and pushed himself away as he hit the high-backed sofa, vision blurring as his emotions crashed down on him, anger and disbelief flooding every synapse until he couldn't see. Of course. Of course.

"What?" he choked out; voice hoarse. He clutched the back of the sofa. He's a fool. He's a fool. Fool—foolfoolfool. Richard's hands were shaking, and the library was shrinking. He didn't understand what was happening and sucked in a deep breath and snapped, "What's wrong?" He said to the empty room. His knees gave out and he collapsed numbly on the floor. His whole chest hurt. "Nothing you've not heard before." Richard snarled, stomach turning as he started to shake. Or maybe the world was shaking. Richard didn't think he'd be able to tell the difference. "Just another quarrel. That's all."

Richard closed his eyes, heart aching. He hated this. He hated the old man. He hated himself. He needed to be alone.

You are alone, a voice said. — I know. So why does it feel like I'm being watched. Always. Always. — you're pathetic.

"I'm not the one in the wrong here," he shouted back, rage lighting up every nerve in his body as he stared down the ceiling, provoking some invisible enemy.

Believe whatever you like, the voice said.

He just wanted to not feel the clawing in his chest. Everything hurt. Chest, lungs, stomach. Richard shoved his hands in his hair and groaned before taking several deep breaths. This was the old man's fault. No, this wasn't the old man's fault. This was his own fault. He was the one who made himself feel this way. He had himself to blame. He and his incompetence.

Richard couldn't move.

Everything hurt.

I'm sorry. I'm not what I would like you to believe I am. I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry. I would like to be what you wish for me to be, but I simply am not that. I am not what I want me to be.

No. Not true.

Nobody had had any expectations. Nobody had expected him to do anything. He was the one with the delusions. And now that he'd walked into the wall and the blinds had come down, he was seeing what everyone had already known.

Richard yelled and rose and threw the phone across the room. His hands were back in his hair. He needed to be somewhere else and forget about it. Maybe a few days drunk or asleep would do the trick.

"It's not my problem," Richard snapped.

Yes, it is.

Richard changed his shirt and determinedly did not cry as he hailed a hansom to Gaillon. The old man was a bastard. An insensitive bastard. There he was, jumping to all the right conclusions. As always.

Notwithstanding the forenoon traffic, the ride to James's took under a quarter of an hour but it felt interminable within Richard's current mental state. He hated this. He wanted to hammer this out with someone. Fight and rail.

In his distraction, Richard at first didn't notice the gathering clouds above. It would surely rain, soon. It had been an exceptional wet summer already, and it didn't seem like it was getting better anytime soon. He stretched himself out on the bench. He should have brought a coat.

Upon arrival, Richard Crawford was ushered into Guilory's drawing-room by an old bowing valet. His forehead was throbbing with maddened nerves, Richard felt wildly excited, and his manner as he greeted his friend, did not flatter him.

"Richard, what a nice surpri—"

"You ready, James?"

The young man sat sideways in a high-backed chair, his legs over the armrest, a paper in his lap. "What?"

Richard took a single step in his direction and gestured vaguely. "Need someone to drive me."

James frowned. "We're going somewhere?"

Richard turned on his heels and went in the direction of the hall, Guillory sat agape, but then ventured to follow him at last, shouting something indistinguishable to his valet.

"Richard!" He called. "Couldn't you just take—"

"Let's get going, James." Richard could feel James looking him over as they strode past the unsettled valet who stood halfway down the hall with refreshments, assessing him, checking up on him. It gave Richard shivers. He felt a thin sheen of sweat break out at his hairline.

"Richard?" He heard James ask, "what's wrong?" James reached for him and turned him by the shoulder. "You look like you're having a stroke."

Richard jumped slightly at his touch, "Nothing's wrong!" he said, but halted, nevertheless. He saw himself reach out for one of the tumblers on the valet's platter and downed half, choking slightly and gasping as the fiery liquid rushed down his throat in one long swallow.

"Whoa whoa whoa— Richard!" James had reached out a cautionary hand, mouth open in surprise. "Are you sure you're alright? You don't look alright." James's soft voice, tinged with genuine concern echoed in Richard's ear. "What's got you so upset?" James was leaning into him, face worried, eyes searching Richard's anxiously.

"Nothing." Richard looked away. "Get your keys, Guillory."