Founder, Installment 12
Chapters 23 and 24
Chapter 23
A Confession, November, 2021
At just past 10 the next morning, Hugh is taking his cereal bowl to the kitchen sink when someone knocks on his door. Before he can unlock the deadbolt, he hears a key turning in the lock. A second later, the door swings inward and Silvia appears, dressed in workout clothes.
“Hey,” she says, slightly out of breath. “I was in Gloven for yoga and figured I’d swing by so we could finish our talk—if you’ve got a few minutes.”
“No, yeah, fine,” replies Hugh. Then, gesturing at his torn gray joggers, “You should’ve let me know you were coming. I’d have put on proper pants.”
Silvia sets her backpack on the dining table and goes to the sofa. “I actually think I’ve worn those pants,” she laughs. Then, as she sits, she unfolds the orange throw and drapes it over her lap. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair damp with sweat and pulled back into a loose ponytail.
Hugh goes to the chair opposite her and sits down. “Hot yoga?”
“Oh my god, yes,” she laughs. “I’m drenched.”
He hesitates briefly, then asks, “How’s the new flat?”
“It’s nice,” she says, brushing a fleck of lint from the throw. “It’s very much a guy’s flat, you know? But it’s close to campus so I can walk to class.”
“Yeah. Good.”
Silvia looks toward the window, then back at Hugh. “Anyway, I wanted to finish our talk, you know? But not on the phone.”
“Right.”
“And I don’t have class this morning so I figured I’d pop by to make sure you’re watering my plants.” They both laugh. After a moment, Silvia continues. “I know I moved out in a huff and I wanted to say I didn’t handle that well…when we’ve been friends for so long, you know? And then I hear all you’ve been going through and I feel like shit…”
Hugh glances at her, then looks away.
“It’s just that you really hurt my feelings when you called me a hypocrite, ‘cause I don’t think you realize how much your opinion matters to me. It felt like you don’t get me at all—like you actually believe I care about Tommy’s money. And you know me too well to think that…” She pauses and hugs a knee to her chest. When she looks toward the window again, Hugh sees a glaze of tears in her eyes.
“I was an idiot to say that,” Hugh says. “And it wasn’t fair to call you a hypocrite. I was just hurt ‘cause you seem so disapproving of my claim. And then I lost my shit when you said I’m not satisfied being feegie and all that.” He thinks for a second. “I was also feeling weird about you going to meet Tommy’s parents, yeah? ‘Cause if that got serious I’d be out of a flatmate and my best friend.” He shakes his head and laughs. “Which is a bit ironic, now.”
Silvia wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “That’s for sure,” she replies. “The stupid thing is, I was looking for a reason not to meet his parents. Can you believe that? I was still debating it when we argued, and I was sort of hoping you’d talk me out of going. But when you called me a hypocrite, I got defensive and went just to spite you, which sounds incredibly immature, I realize.”
“No, it doesn’t…”
“Then things just sort of moved forward, you know? And all of a sudden I’m living with him, and he’s getting super serious…”
“Is he?”
Silvia draws a breath, then rises from the couch. “Do you have any seltzer?”
“Top shelf in the fridge,” he says. “Help yourself.”
A minute later, she returns to the couch with a glass. She sits back down and takes a drink while surveying the living room. Hugh follows her gaze—to the front door, the bookshelf with sagging shelves, the linen curtains, the dining table where they used to eat together.
“What’s going on with Tullia?” she asks, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.
“Now there’s a change of subject,” laughs Hugh. “Not much to say, really. She hasn’t been by the bar in a while.”
“But you still fancy her?” she asks.
“A little, I guess. What about you and Tommy?”
Now Silvia’s face grows unexpectedly pale; she looks up at the ceiling and then back toward Hugh with an expression he can only read as trepidation. She takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders, then replies, “I know you’re asking about Tommy to be polite, but you get that I’m conflicted about that, right?”
“‘Cause he’s a yazzer?”
“No,” she says,“‘Cause I’m hung up on someone else—but the guy isn’t into me.” Her lower lip begins to tremble and she covers her mouth with her hand. “Oh fuck,” she says. “This is so hard.”
Hugh goes to sit beside her on the couch, resting his hand on her knee. “Ah, Sil. That’s rough.”
Silvia laughs darkly, dropping her hands to her lap. She looks at Hugh incredulously, then wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “I’m talking about you,” she says. “And don’t pretend you didn’t know that.”
In an instant, Hugh becomes aware of his hand on her knee and the heat of her leg beneath his touch. Before he can remove his hand, she places her hand on his.
“Don’t freak out,” she says.
“I’m not…”
Silvia turns her body to face him, her eyes locked on his. “But, my god, Hugh. How many signals am I supposed to send before I just assume you’re not into me?”
“Signals?”
“Oh my god,” she replies. “The little looks. Staying home on weekend nights just to watch TV with you. Asking you to dance on my birthday…”
Hugh shakes his head. “I’m so bloody thick.”
Now Silvia smiles grimly. “That’s been the hardest part,” she says, her cheeks now streaked with tears. “You’re not thick at all. You just weren’t interested.”
Hugh starts to speak, then catches himself. When Silvia moves closer to discern his expression, he surprises himself by leaning forward and kissing her. She stiffens, then pulls away, her eyes wide.
“That wasn’t a pity kiss, was it?”
He opens his mouth to reply but she cuts him off.
“This is real for me, Hugh. I don’t want a pity kiss.” She straightens herself up on the sofa and pulls the orange throw closer. “I can’t handle the idea of being the pathetic flatmate you kiss ‘cause you feel sorry for her.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” swears Hugh. “I used to think a lot about…” His voice trails off.
“About what?” she asks.
“The same thing…”
“Me?”
He nods. “When I first moved in. A lot. But then I worried it would blow everything up.”
“Why would that blow things up?” she asks.
He sits back in his chair, runs his fingers through his hair, and laughs. “‘Cause you’re this totally brilliant law student from a good family, with her career all mapped out. And I’m the orphan bartender with OCD issues. Then, when you told me you’re seeing this successful yazzer lawyer, it made sense to me. I mean, it totally crushed me, but it made sense.”
Silvia’s expression softens and she leans forward again, placing her hand on his. In that single gesture, he feels all at once his mother’s touch, and that of the nice woman at his parents’ funeral, and the desperate burden of his loneliness. His eyes blur with tears.
“Maybe it seems that way,” she replies. “But it’s so much more complicated, right?”
“I’m not sure,” he says.
“What if you just fancy someone because he’s kind and smart and he’s been through some stuff that makes him really soulful? And you don’t care how much money he makes. What about that?”
Suddenly, the voice in his head awakens.
That, it begins.
Pat.
Rat-a-tat-tat.
Starting to grow light-headed, Hugh replies, “I get that,” but the words come out sounding hesitant. The change in his tone seems to alarm Silvia, who is now staring at him pleadingly.
“Do you get how hard it is to tell someone you love him when you’re not sure he loves you back?”
Hugh looks toward the window to hide his winking eye.
“Hugh?” she asks. “Can you say something please?”
Please.
Weeze.
Freeze.
He inhales deeply now, to ease the tightening in his chest, to beat back the encroaching panic. “I think I fucked it up,” he whispers from the storm now blowing inside him.
Silvia springs from the sofa and stands over him, her eyes flashing. “Oh my god. Why would you say that, Hugh? Because kissing me when you don’t feel the way I do would totally destroy me?”
Hugh wants to say no, that she has misunderstood him, that he wants nothing more than to be with her, unburdened by this crippling self-doubt. But the panic has overwhelmed him now. Nothing comes out of his mouth—and Silvia has begun to sob into her hands. He studies her contorted face, the green irises of her eyes, the pupils wide, the eyelashes dark and wet. He hears her whispering, Oh my god, oh my god, but a fierce wind is drowning out her voice.
God, begins the refrain in his head.
Sod.
Shod.
Stop, he commands himself, but the voice only grows more censorious.
Fuck.
Pluck.
You suck.
Silvia has stopped crying now; her hands hang at her sides. She continues to look at him but there is an unfamiliar hardness to her eyes. After a long silence, she glances at the door, then back at Hugh. He buries his face in his hands to hide his twitching eye.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers to the darkness behind his palms.
When, after an interminable moment, he looks up again, he sees that Silvia has already gone to the door and opened it. As she steps onto the landing, he feels his index finger straighten involuntarily, then dab at the corner of his mouth.
Chapter 24
Strangers, November, 2021
Hugh is just completing an order of espresso martinis when his mobile vibrates in his pocket. His manager has forbidden restaurant staff from using private phones while on duty, so he lets the call go to voicemail. For a second, he wonders if it might be Silvia, calling after two weeks of stony silence to say she forgives him for panicking at the worst possible moment. But he knows it’s not; she seems to have given up for good.
Who wouldn’t give up?
When his phone rings a second time, he steals a look at the caller ID; it’s Maggie, which means he’s probably at the pub and feeling chatty, or in need of a few euros. Hugh forwards the call to voicemail. He has just begun to mix a vodka martini when Maggie calls a third time. Again, he declines the call, but this time asks Oliver to cover for him so he can make sure everything’s okay. Wiping his hands on a bar towel, he hurries out of the bar and down the hallway, to the employee toilet where he phones his uncle.
Maggie answers on the first ring.
“Hughie,” he whispers. “Two jimmies been followin’ me around.”
“What do you mean following you?”
“I saw them watchin’ me at the pub, and when I walked home, they followed me back here.”
Here.
Mere.
Fear.
“They followed you home? You’re sure? You’re not just pissed?”
Maggie exhales heavily. “I’m not pissed ‘cause I got outta the pub when I saw them eyeballin’ me. Now I think they’re in the buildin’, maybe.”
“Did you call the Sikstand?” asks Hugh, now whispering though no one is in earshot.
“I’m not callin’ the Sikkies,” says Maggie. Then, before Hugh can respond, his uncle whispers, “Wait, I think someone’s outside my door…”
“What? Like knocking?”
Maggie does not respond.
“Don’t answer the door, Maggie!”
Still no response.
Hugh hears scraping as Maggie’s mobile is moved, then his uncle’s barely audible voice. “I think they’re fiddlin’ with the lock…” he whispers.
“Call the Sikkies, Maggie!”
Silence.
“Fuck, Maggie!” screams Hugh. “I’m calling the Sikkies right now! Grab a knife or something and lock yourself in the studio and hide until they get there! Okay? You hear me? Go get safe! I’m calling now!”
“I’m goin,’” whispers Maggie. “Tell ‘em to hurry.”
His hands trembling, Hugh hangs up and dials 999, reaching a dispatcher almost immediately.
“Someone’s trying to break into my uncle’s flat,” he shouts, his words tumbling out in an unrecognizable staccato.
“Okay, I can help you,” says the dispatcher, a woman. “What is your uncle’s name and the address of the emergency?”
“Maghil Warding. Seventy-two Barling Street, NCA—flat 3B.”
There is a ten-second pause before the dispatcher speaks again. “Alright, I’ve dispatched a unit to your uncle’s building. They should be there in a few minutes. What is your name, sir?”
He tells her.
“Okay, I’m going to need you to stay on the line, Mr. Warding,” says the woman. “I need some information from you. Can you stay on with me?”
“Yeah,” replies Hugh, looking around the restroom, then at himself in the mirror. The color has drained from his face; his eyes are wide and his pupils dilated. “Tell them to hurry,” he begs. “They were outside his door…”
“They will hurry, Mr. Warding. Was your uncle safe when you spoke with him?”
“Yeah, but they were trying to get in his door. I told him to go hide in his studio with a knife or something.”
“Does your uncle own a firearm?”
“No.”
“How many people were at his door? Do you know?”
“He said two. They followed him home from the pub.”
“Did he describe them to you?”
“No. Shouldn’t someone call to check on him?” Hugh’s pulse is racing now and the tightness in his sternum has spread through his ribs and around his chest. Darkness invades the margins of his sight. “Ah, fuck…” he groans.
“Sir? Are you okay?”
“I get panic attacks…”
Attack.
Snack.
Crack.
“I know this is stressful,” says the dispatcher, the cadence of her voice slowing. “Try to breathe, okay? Take deep breaths. I’ll stay on with you.”
“Shouldn’t you ring my uncle?” he asks again. “So he knows help is coming?”
“It’s better not to call right now,” she says. “A ringing phone could alert the intruders to your uncle’s location. They should be there any minute now. Just stay calm with me, okay?”
“I’m trying…” He goes and squats beneath the hand dryers mounted on the wall. Breathing. Breathing. His left eye begins to wink uncontrollably. He rubs his cheek and forehead with the back of his hand. For a time, the winking stops.
“I have your phone number as 21 77 89 02 55. Is that right?”
“Yeah.”
“What is your uncle’s telephone number? Do you have that?”
Hugh is about to look Maggie’s number up in his contacts list when the dispatcher interrupts him.
“Mr. Warding, our field unit reports they are at your uncle’s building. He’s in flat 3B, is that correct?”
“Yeah. Third floor. Stairs are on the right inside the lobby…”
“Stay on with me…”
Another pause.
Breathing. Breathing.
“Are you with me, Mr. Warding?” says the dispatcher.
“I’m still here. Have they…”
“Hold on,” interjects the woman. “They’re with your uncle…”
“Oh, god…” says Hugh, exhaling.
“They’re requesting an ambulance.”