‘I know I haven’t been the most attentive son when it comes to your birthday and I was trying to think of something you’d like,’ he says, looking up to the sky in a mock-thoughtful way. ‘I haven’t got much money to buy you expensive presents, not like Dad used to.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say cautiously.
Alfie carries on with his speech. ‘So, I thought I’d give you something money can’t buy.’ He smiles broadly at me. ‘I thought I’d give you me. My heart, actually.’
‘Your heart?’
‘Yes, I thought I’d let you see into my heart and what I’m all about. Because, let’s face it, Mum, we haven’t exactly been close lately, have we?’
I shake my head. ‘It’s been difficult,’ I say.
The boat rocks violently to the left and I grab the side to steady myself. The water is faster than ever now, thundering along and taking the kayak with it. My spine tingles with a sense of foreboding, a sensation not dissimilar to what I feel when I’m teetering on the edge of an argument with Alfie, only this time it’s infinitely more intense. One wrong word now, or even the wrong tone to my voice, has the potential to send us spilling over the abyss and into the depths of an argument. Or worse.
I watch Alfie push the toe of his trainer under the stem of the paddle and flick it up to his outstretched hand. He holds the paddle with two hands and swings it round over the side of the kayak. A reflex reaction makes me duck out of the way, the paddle missing me by a few inches. ‘Hey! Watch out!’
‘I’m not the one who needs to watch out,’ says Alfie. He dips the end of the paddle into the water for a moment before pulling it out and resting it on the side of the kayak.
I’ve long known that Alfie is unpredictable. He’s volatile. He’s nasty. And although I would never admit it to anyone else, he scares me. Today, if I was asked to rate my fear on a scale of one to ten, with ten being the highest, I would have to say I was at level nine right now. The high end of nine.
‘I’m talking about you, Mum,’ he says with a sneer. ‘You need to watch out.’ He begins drumming his fingers again, a sure sign his level of agitation is increasing.
If I can change the direction of the conversation, distract him, steer his mind elsewhere, I might be able to avoid a full-blown fight. Part of me thinks this is foolish. Diversion tactics have never worked before, not once he’s locked in this blinkered mindset, but I must try. As a mother, I can’t stop trying to help my son, no matter what happens or what he does or what I have seen lurking behind his eyes. Giving up on him is not an option. For a second, I revisit my fantasy of a life with Seb and harmony with Alfie. As I do, I’m struck by a moment of clarity: I will never be able to have both. It’s got to be one or the other: Seb or Alfie.
I look down at the pool of water that has formed in the bottom of the kayak. The bigger waves are breaching the side of the boat. ‘I think we could be in for a rough ride,’ I say, nodding to the river. ‘Shall we get ourselves through the next stretch? We can talk properly once we reach the village.’
‘I don’t want to talk later. I want to talk now,’ says Alfie. ‘You always do this. Try to stop me from talking. We always have to do it on your terms, when you’re ready. Well, I’m ready now and seeing as you can’t walk away from me this time, I guess that means you’re a captive audience.’
‘Alfie, please. Let’s get to safety,’ I plead. Acutely aware I am powerless, I pick up the paddle. My hand is shaking. As I lift the paddle to grasp it with both hands, Alfie lurches forward and grabs it. He twists it hard to the left, bending my wrist over to the point where, if I don’t let go of the paddle, I will either tip over or break my wrist. I release my hold. Alfie snatches the paddle and throws it into the kayak behind us.
‘You’re going to listen whether you like it or not.’ He fixes his eyes on me. I don’t say anything for fear of antagonising him further. I know what will happen next if I do. I feel myself physically shrink into the seat. I realise that I am subconsciously rubbing the top of my arm. The bruise from his last attack has almost faded. It had been a particularly deep bruise. The memory of the pain makes me wince. It had hurt for days, my whole arm ached when I lifted it. Seb had questioned me about it, but I had passed it off as a knock from the newel post at the foot of the stairs. He’d looked unconvinced but hadn’t pursued it, much to my relief. I think if he had, my resolve would have crumbled. There have been several times when I’ve been on the brink of confessing the toxicity of my relationship with Alfie, but I’ve always held back. Even in my most vulnerable moments, the desire to protect my son has been stronger. But everyone has their breaking point.
I take a deep breath and try a different approach. Conciliatory and unchallenging. It sometimes works. ‘OK, Alfie.’ I give a small smile as an indicator of my intent. ‘That’s fine. What do you want to talk about?’
‘Thought you might have worked it out by now.’ He lets out a long sigh. ‘I’m going to have to spell it out, aren’t I?’ He raises his eyebrows and I brace for impact as he pauses to ramp up the tension like some reality talent show on Saturday-night TV. Then he launches his attack. ‘I hate you. H A T E. Hate you. No, wait. Hate isn’t strong enough. I despise you.’
I force myself to remain calm. This isn’t the first time Alfie has said those words to me. They used to hurt a lot, but these days my invisible shield does a fine job of deflecting the spiteful comments. He doesn’t hate me. He’s angry, that’s all. He hates what has happened, not me. I’m absolutely sure of that. It is not dissimilar to my own feelings about him at times. Not that I would ever admit that to anyone, but to myself, I can just about stomach the truth. Sometimes I don’t like my son. I love him, but I don’t like him.
Another silence sits between us as Alfie studies my reaction to his battle cry. I maintain my calm and unruffled exterior. ‘I know you’re angry with me and hurting because of what happened,’ I begin, but am cut off before I can say anything else.
‘Shut the fuck up!’ He screams the words at me and for the second time I feel myself physically shy away from him. His face is only inches from my own. I can see the vein in the side of his temple pulsating and the ligaments in his neck look like they are about to burst from his skin. ‘I do hate you, and yes I am angry, but it’s all your fault and that adds to my hate. Do you get it? DO YOU?’
I nod. ‘Yes. It’s OK. I understand.’ This isn’t a new situation either. He needs an outlet for his anger and confusion, for his hurt and pain. I am his mother and, as my counsellor explained, I am the safe place for him to express himself.
The burst of anger subsides and Alfie sits down on his seat. The noise of the river and the wind blowing through the trees fades into the background as I watch my son. His leg is jiggling up and down, another sign of extreme agitation, and his fingers curl and then uncurl around the handle of the paddle. There’s a shift in mood, and not for the better. His jaw is clenched and there is a hardness to his whole face which only serves to give a more dangerous undertone to his behaviour.
‘You don’t understand. You like to think you do, but you don’t,’ says Alfie. ‘Sending me to those counselling sessions, as if that would make everything all right. I’ve heard you talking to Seb. Muttering to each other in the kitchen, thinking I can’t hear you, but I can. Telling him that I need time to process what’s happened, accept it and come to terms with it. All that bullshit shrink jargon.’
‘I’m sorry. I thought talking to Doctor Huntingdon helped.’
Alfie looks up to the sky in exasperation. The raindrops bounce off his nose. He pushes his wet hair away from his forehead and then returns his gaze to me. ‘It’s all bullshit, Mum. I played along with it. In fact, it was quite amusing, seeing how far I could convince that stupid old bastard that I was coming to terms with it all.’
I notice the use of the past tense. ‘Played along with it?’ I ask.
‘Oh yeah, I forgot to mention. I sacked him.’
‘Doctor Huntingdon? You don’t see him any more?’
Alfie shrugs. ‘It got boring.’
I take in this new information and try to find any link with Alfie’s recent behaviour. Being brutally honest, I can’t say there’s been any obvious change, not that I’ve noticed anyway. He’s been his usual pained self. ‘It’s supposed to help you.’
‘Help me or help you? It didn’t do anything for me, other than keep me amused. Sorry to disappoint you. I know you’d love me to be fixed.’ His leg jiggles quicker. ‘You’d be delighted if all my issues were resolved – that is the right expression, isn’t it? Well, if they were, that would ease your guilt. And that would suit you fine.’
‘The counselling wasn’t for my direct benefit,’ I say, although I’m aware that Alfie is pretty accurate. If Alfie hadn’t been so badly affected by what happened, then I could have forgiven myself for my part in it. As it stands, I must take some responsibility for how my son is now.
‘If you hadn’t kicked Dad out, then he wouldn’t have killed himself.’
‘It’s not as straightforward as that.’
‘That’s your stock answer.’ Alfie shakes his head in disgust. ‘Why did you kick Dad out?’
Alfie sounds like a schoolteacher trying to get answers from a bewildered student. And I’m the student, not knowing if I’m about to get a gold star or punishment. I can feel the trepidation rising through my airways, almost suffocating my voice. I cough to clear my throat before I speak. ‘I didn’t love your dad. Things had happened in our relationship that couldn’t be put right.’
‘Wrong! That’s the wrong answer.’ Alfie leans forward. ‘You didn’t believe Dad about Ruby.’
‘That’s not true. I did believe your father.’ And I had. When Joanne and Tris had come round that evening, to confront us about Ruby’s growing infatuation with Darren, I had never doubted for one moment my husband’s side of the story. The other side was too preposterous to consider. I knew Darren wouldn’t have got involved with an eighteen-year-old, let alone the daughter of our close friends. I look at Alfie. ‘No one believed Ruby, not even her own parents.’
‘Come off it, Mum. You know how angry and upset Joanne was. That’s why you two fell out.’
‘But that was because, like any mother, she automatically defended her own child. Once Tris had spoken to your dad properly, she realised it was all a silly crush Ruby had on your father.’ Everything I’m saying is true and yet I am painfully aware that it is not the whole truth.
‘Joanne never believed that. Why do you think she invited you up here for the weekend? She was going to tell you exactly how she felt about you.’
‘I know that now, but Joanne’s d—’
‘Can we not keep going on about Joanne!’ snaps Alfie. ‘It’s ruining my birthday present to you. Let’s get back to you finding out about me. If that’s OK with you?’
I give a small nod. ‘Sure.’
‘In order for you to find out more about me, I need to find out a few things from you.’
‘OK. Like what?’
‘Like why you didn’t love me enough to let Dad stay. You might not have loved him, but I did. You didn’t think of me then. All that mattered were your own selfish reasons for kicking him out. Never mind how much it would hurt me to see my dad in some seedy, dirty bedsit. To see him a broken man. All his self-esteem deleted, the hard-drive to his pride wiped clean. You didn’t think how that would make me feel.’
‘But staying together wouldn’t have been any better. It would have been worse.’
‘For who? For you – not for me. No, to have my dad there would not have been worse for me!’ Alfie grabs at the paddle and bangs the end of the handle on the bottom of the kayak. ‘You wanted him out of the way so you could get into bed with Seb. I bet you were carrying on with him long before you kicked Dad out.’
‘That’s not true!’ I jump to my feet, forgetting where I am. The kayak tips violently to one side, sending both myself and Alfie off balance. For a moment, I think we are both going in, but the kayak tilts back to its central position, before returning to the rocking rhythm of the river. The extra width afforded to a tandem kayak is our saviour.
Alfie doesn’t seem to notice. He gets to his feet. His hands clasped around the paddle. Rage colours his face a bright red. His eyes bulge as the suppressed tension erupts inside him. He lifts the paddle and draws it into the air behind him.
I hear myself gasp as, too late, I realise what he is planning to do. My hands fly to the air to protect myself as Alfie swings the paddle in a sweeping arc towards me and shouts, ‘Happy birthday, Mum!’
It’s amazing how the brain can process so many thoughts in a split second. Maybe because I’ve been expecting this moment, anticipating it, rehearsing this sort of situation for a long time now. Probably exploring it in my subconscious long before it ever reached the conscious part of my brain. This is the one and only opportunity I will have to make life better. This is my escape route.