The Snakes Read online

  ‘Give me your plates. Then I have to go to bed, I’m so tired.’

  ‘You can use any of the dishwashers,’ said Alex airily.

  She made a pile of the plates and took them back across the small sitting room and the hall and into the kitchen. The giant fridge hummed. In an annexe by the side door she found two full-sized dishwashers, with clean and dirty china distributed randomly between them. She put everything into one. There was a huge glass bowl of different kinds of dishwasher tablets, like pick ’n’ mix. She chose one and started up the machine. When she came back into the hall, Dan was waiting.

  ‘Bedtime,’ he said.

  Alex waved them off up the stairs, like they were on a departing cruise ship, and went out into the garden, singing to himself.

  The doors were closed to all the empty rooms along the corridor. They pulled things from their backpacks, and the giant suitcase, scattering clothes onto the floor. It was too late for order. Exhaustion hit them, and made them cold.

  ‘I can’t believe only this morning we were on that ferry,’ said Bea.

  He didn’t answer. The unfamiliar bed smelled of washing powder that was not their own, strong and stale. The duvet was too hot and too cold by turns. The window was open, the curtains half closed. They lay next to one another in the strangeness. The mattress was very soft and deep. They listened to the creaks in the unknown, unseen rooms.

  ‘He’s a fucking mess,’ said Dan.

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘I guess you’re used to messes.’

  ‘Yup.’

  They faced each other.

  ‘What’s all that about your dad?’

  ‘Alex hates living off him.’

  ‘He could always stop.’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘Has he ever worked? It’s like benefit scrounging. It’s no different. This place must have cost a ton.’

  ‘Not that much,’ she said.

  ‘Not that much?’ repeated Dan, mystified. ‘It’s massive.’

  There was silence.

  ‘Dan,’ she said. ‘Please. Please, try to be nice to him. I know he’s – not like anyone we know. I know how difficult he seems. But he’s so lovely. He is. And he’s my brother. Please try.’

  ‘I will,’ said Dan. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He took her hands. They kissed, to make friends, and to find themselves again.

  ‘It’s awful, what they’ve done to him,’ she said.

  He didn’t listen. Difficult childhoods were not unique, they weren’t even unusual. He lifted off her T-shirt, like the unveiling of a piece of art, and pulled her close. They heard a noise.

  ‘What’s that?’ he said.

  Her breasts were pressed against his chest, her arms around his neck. They stopped and listened. Above, in the ceiling, they could hear a slipping sound, like the dragging of something very light. Then scratching. Then the slipping sound again, light as a brush on the boards above.

  ‘What could it be?’

  The thing above them moved. Then silence. Uncomfortable. They waited, forgetting kissing, not making love.

  They both lay still, listening, and after a few minutes, she heard Dan’s breaths fall deeper and deeper, as he went to sleep. Carefully, so as not to wake him she put her T-shirt back on as the rustling in the roof started again. She heard doors shutting below, and the screech and shuffle of the sash windows closing, and then, muffled, the creak of Alex’s tread on the stairs. It was as if he were a child, playing at adulthood in that made-up doll’s house of a hotel. But he was thirty-seven years old. She thought how old they both were; having jobs, and buying cars and travelling from place to place – owning hotels, however chaotic. She was a professional and a taxpayer. Married. Her mind drifted, lost in chronology, so far from her beginning, and long, unknown years from death. She wondered if when she had a baby she would feel settled and grown-up. She didn’t think being a mother would stop her questioning her validity. She couldn’t remember if she’d taken her pill that morning. Then she remembered she had. She put her hand across her tummy, sleepily, listening to the sounds around her, and then the silences between the sounds.

  When she woke the next morning she was alone in the bed. She checked her phone. Ten thirty. She opened the curtains and looked out on the day. Sun gleamed on the leaves and grass, on the walls and window glass. Everything that had seemed oppressive now felt guileless; even the big hotel, with only the three of them inside. She got dressed and went down, smelling something singed and sugary. Alex leaned into the hall from the kitchen.

  ‘Want a croissant? I’m toasting them, they’re amazing.’

  ‘Morning. Yes, please. Where’s Dan?’

  ‘He was here a minute ago.’

  He ducked back into the kitchen and the fire door swung shut. From the stairs she could see the visitors’ book below her, lying open, next to the computer. The pages were filled with entries. She reached the hall and went behind the desk, reading the names and countries. The UK, the States, Australia. ‘Great stay! Thanks!’ ‘Beautiful country and great wines!’

  At the end of January the entries stopped. Dust lay over the desk, and the stacks of files on the small bookshelf looked untouched. She could smell coffee and hear Alex banging around on the other side of the fire door. Propped up on a table behind her was the board for the keys. They hung on hooks below gold-stencilled numbers, and had big wooden tags. Room 1 was missing, it was on her bedside table. A word was written in the gap, in capitals, with a Sharpie. HUBRIS. Behind Room 2 was the word GREED. She pushed aside the others. LUST, ENVY, GLUTTONY, WRATH and SLOTH. Only those seven keys were on the board, the rest of the hooks were empty. Alex opened the kitchen door.

  ‘Breakfast, you lazy cow,’ he said.

  ‘What’s with the seven deadly sins?’

  He smiled. ‘I was bored. It was funny at the time. Instead of grape varieties, or Molière, or whatever.’

  ‘You put us in Hubris.’

  ‘It’s not personal. D’you want some coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please. Alex?’

  ‘Yup.’

  She felt awkward. ‘Why did you make up the guests?’

  He narrowed his eyes.

  ‘In the book. All the names. Why did you make them up?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  He was so brazen she doubted herself. ‘Yes, you did.’

  ‘FUCKING HELL!’ He kicked the door. It was a petulant kick, like a rock musician, leg flying sideways and the door banged, booming against the wall.

  They heard running. Dan came in from the sitting room.

  ‘What the fuck?’ he said. ‘What’s going on? Why are you shouting at Bea?’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ said Alex. His rage, like a blown light bulb, had gone.

  ‘You were!’ Dan came towards him.

  ‘Why would anyone shout at Bea?’ said Alex sadly.

  Dan looked from one to the other.

  ‘It’s fine, Dan,’ she said. ‘There are fake names in the guestbook. I was just asking about them.’

  ‘What?’ said Dan.

  ‘They aren’t all fake,’ said Alex.

  ‘There aren’t even that many,’ she said.

  She thought of him getting bored with his game and giving up, and she couldn’t help laughing. Alex laughed too, but Dan couldn’t see anything funny.

  ‘Wait, you’re registering phoney guests?’ he said.

  ‘It takes ages,’ said Alex.

  ‘Yeah, but why?’

  Alex shrugged.

  ‘What for Alex?’ said Dan.

  ‘I don’t know, Dan,’ said Alex tiredly. ‘Seriously, who cares?’ He went back into the kitchen.

  ‘Why d’you have to be so aggressive?’ said Bea.

  ‘I didn’t raise my voice,’ said Dan.

  ‘You never do,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘I was trying to find out what’s going on here. This isn’t a hotel.’

  ‘It’s none of our business,’ s
he said.

  ‘You mean mine.’

  ‘No. It’s his place –’

  ‘It’s your dad’s place, Bea.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘I thought you didn’t want anything to do with him –’

  ‘It’s not me! It’s Alex! He can do what he wants.’

  ‘Because he has the choice, doesn’t he? It’s a sham – this whole thing is a game.’

  ‘So what, though? What’s your problem?’

  ‘I mean, what’s going on? Is he just pretending about everything – or what?’

  ‘God, Dan, I don’t know, ask him!’

  ‘I did!’

  ‘You were really nasty about it!’

  ‘It’s all a laugh to both of you, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s not –’ she said. ‘I’m just trying to make him feel better.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s harsh, living in a hotel, doing nothing.’

  He was angry, and jealous. It wasn’t her fault. ‘OK, whatever,’ she said. ‘I’m going out.’

  ‘Out? Where?’

  It pleased her how shocked he was to be deserted. ‘I’m going for a walk,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t you want breakfast?’

  ‘Oh, fuck off, Dan,’ she said, then, at the door, relented. ‘I’ll see you in a bit. It’s fine.’ She didn’t slam it, she shut it, and he was alone.

  When she had gone, he shook his head at himself.

  ‘Nice one,’ he said, out loud.

  His mother had had a boyfriend once, who yelled at her. He had never forgotten, as a child, seeing the way her head shrank into her shoulders – his big woman of a mother – terrified the guy would smack her. Dan was never anything but ashamed of being angry with Bea and she was right, he had been aggressive to Alex. He would have loved her to be wrong just one time. No, that wasn’t it, he’d hate that. He needed her compass. He went into the kitchen to make peace with her brother, who was poking burnt bits out from between the holes in the gas stove.

  ‘Bea gone out?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, for a walk,’ said Dan. ‘D’you need a hand?’

  Alex took the question in the spirit it was intended.

  ‘No thank you very much,’ he answered. ‘But it’s coffee time.’

  They took some coffee and more croissants into the garden, and sat at the nearest table.

  ‘Salut,’ said Alex, raising his cup.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Yeah. Cheers,’ said Dan.

  ‘Happy holidays,’ said Alex. ‘Where would you normally be now?’

  ‘In the office,’ Dan said. ‘Waiting for lunchtime.’

  The morning air was soft with dew and full of sunshine. A million miles away Foundations of Holloway were halfway through Thursday morning; cold-calling clients and talking shit. He noticed the coffee was very good. He leaned back slightly in his chair. He noticed the patterns the light made on the grass, how they moved. Out of habit, he practised making them into a flat plane of coloured shapes and lines, to work out how to paint them. Alex was staring at him.

  ‘Bea’s husband, Dan,’ he said.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Alex dunked his croissant in a pot of jam. ‘Estate agent. Wants to be an artist.’ He spoke as if he were reciting from a crib sheet. ‘No previous spouse, so far as I’m aware. Brought up in Brixton. Married – two years? How was the wedding?’

  ‘Peckham,’ said Dan. ‘It was nice.’

  ‘Registry office? Party?’

  ‘Yeah. Why?’

  ‘I’m just asking,’ said Alex. ‘I wasn’t there.’

  ‘Bea invited you.’

  ‘I know.’

  He didn’t appear to have an agenda but Dan was suspicious, Alex was so smug and pleased about everything. The croissant left flakes in the jam, and he was picking them out and eating them. Dan couldn’t work him out. Suddenly, Alex stopped and looked up, bringing himself into focus.

  ‘No, you’re right,’ he said. ‘I guess I do have a point.’

  ‘What is it?’ said Dan quietly.

  ‘It’s just that I don’t know you. I don’t know you! You’re my little sister’s husband, and I don’t even know you. So, I’m just really happy you’re here.’

  Disarmed, Dan didn’t know how to respond.

  ‘Bea is so precious,’ said Alex, gazing at him like a child. ‘I mean, she’s wonderful. If my family were birds she would definitely have been dropped into the nest by – just – another fucking mother-bird, you know? The Good Cuckoo.’

  ‘OK …’

  ‘She’s worth about fifty million times what any of the rest of us are, and that’s including Ed the Perfect, whatever she says about him.’

  ‘Your brother Ed?’ said Dan. He knew the eldest brother Ed was in banking somewhere, he thought Hong Kong. He had almost forgotten he existed. ‘She doesn’t really talk about him.’

  Alex looked pleased. ‘Really?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, Ed’s very boring. He’s just basically –’ He acted a crowd cheering, waving both his hands with a breathy sarcastic sound.

  ‘She doesn’t talk about him,’ said Dan, ‘or your parents. She never says that much.’

  ‘Good,’ said Alex. ‘See, Bea’s the One That Got Away.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Obviously, I’m the Massive Screw-Up. Which one are you, in your family?’

  ‘The only one,’ said Dan. ‘Only child.’

  ‘Black sheep of the family doesn’t begin to cover what I am,’ continued Alex, comfortable talking about feelings, like an inverted, random version of Bea who loved to talk about other people’s. ‘I’m a cellar full of skeletons, me; the rotting portrait in the Adamson attic, fuck knows –’ It was as if his family were bigger than other people, assuming a grander footprint. The self-mythologising was alien to Dan.

  ‘She doesn’t talk about you like that,’ said Dan. ‘She just says she loves you or whatever.’

  ‘Really?’ Alex said gratefully. ‘Does she? Thanks.’

  Dan shrugged him off. Alex went back to the mess of jam and croissant. ‘Bea,’ he said, between mouthfuls, ‘is the crème de la crème de la Adamson. You’re lucky to have her.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s lucky to have you, too,’ Alex added hurriedly. He dipped and scooped the dark, sugary jam, licking his fingers. ‘Want some?’

  ‘No, you’re all right,’ said Dan but he smiled at him.

  4

  Bea walked along the grassy verge feeling very alone. Dew soaked through her canvas shoes. A truck rattled by. Perhaps it was coming back from a market. There was a path to her left, going into the woods, and she took it. Her very first fight with Dan had been on the Victoria line, on the way to meet his cousin Troy. She had resented the way he prepared her for it, like she was Lady Grantham visiting South Side Chicago. The fight started with each of them explaining themselves but by the time they reached Stockwell it was, What, am I a project to you, white girl? and, Fuck you and your cousin Troy! They didn’t fight often. Neither of them liked it. Thick leaves brushed her skirt, and the ground was soft. There were wild flowers and the green smell of shade. She wondered how he was doing with Alex, what the two of them would think of to say. Ahead, the trees were backlit as the path ended and she saw water. She walked out of the woods, to a riverbank.

  The river was brown and slow-moving. She heard a distant road and, downriver, saw a stone bridge, its arches holding shadows. She reached for her phone to see if there was another way back and realised she’d left it by the bed.

  ‘Shit,’ she said, in disproportionate panic.

  She felt vulnerable without her phone. And she needed to know what time it was. Usually it was important to know exactly. She guessed it must be after eleven. Mid-morning on a Thursday, and she was on a French riverbank with no plan for her day. There was a fisherman on the opposite bank. She could see the nose of his car poking out of the bushes. She won
dered why he was not at work; if she were home she would have been at Stamford Hill Psych for three hours. Today, she hadn’t even been out of bed until her replacement had finished the first session. Her nine fifteen, James. She reached for her phone again before remembering it wasn’t there. Her mind scrolled through the Thursday she was missing. James spent his weekends on Es and GHB, having sex with men he didn’t know, and every Monday made his resolutions. Clean on Monday, scared by Wednesday, and always a trigger before Friday – a call from his ex or something at work – and Saturday, every week, the fall. The forty-eight-hour party. Blackouts. Bruises. Shame. He wanted to feel love. He would lean forward urgently to tell her. Her ten fifteen was Tara, who was twenty-five. She was on a waiting list to see a psychiatrist, and shouldn’t have been living on her own. Tara harmed herself, and had been fired from her internship. Her mother lived in Washington and her father wasn’t speaking to her, and her benefits had been suspended. Her suicidal thoughts frightened her, because she didn’t feel sad, it just made unarguable sense to kill herself. She wasn’t ill enough for inpatient care in an NHS unit, but wasn’t well enough to cope. All Bea could do was offer strategies, she couldn’t keep her safe. Leaving Tara had been very hard, even with two months’ notice. The guilt was sickening. Again, she reached for her phone; ruled by the ingrained habit. Tara needed more help than Bea could give. She needed everything. Every time she thought of her Bea wanted to cry, but she never had the time. Her eleven fifteen might still be going on; if she had her phone, she’d be able to check. They were a mother and daughter who had been having the same conversation for months, blaming one another for their lives. Bea hoped they would move on but hadn’t the heart to stop seeing them. She pictured them tormenting her replacement with their shouting. At half past twelve, notes and a sandwich, then at half past one, safeguarding. At three o’clock a client. Another client. Who? She closed her eyes to remember. Three o’clock on a Thursday. Joel. Joel was a sixteen-year-old boy, who came with his stepmother. He hadn’t grown into his long, thin limbs. He had red hair. He was being bullied for it. At four fifteen, Karen, who was a full-time carer for her father who had dementia. Bea was her one hour’s respite in the week, she called Bea her saviour. At five thirty, Bill, an ex-soldier. Sometimes he would cry, other times he didn’t talk at all. Each day different, each day the same. She didn’t know how long she had been standing there, so deep in London that she felt the city’s air on her skin. She didn’t want Dan to think she wasn’t talking to him, because she couldn’t text. She shouldn’t worry so much about his approval. Stamford Hill Psych, cash-starved as they were, had recently opened a service for digital addiction, and had barely set it up when the appointments flooded in. She didn’t need a phone. She did not want to identify with a floating blue dot. She could easily find her own way back to the hotel. Not wanting to retrace her steps she started to walk along the river, looking for another route.