he only wanted what was best for the lad. He would have to insist. Sydney would call him Harvey.
Andrea, unconvinced, checked with the adoption agencies. It was the preferred approach, apparently. So she let it go, for now. There would be time, it was better not to rush things.
Sydney continued to run after Dusty and to fire unanswerable questions at his legal guardian. But Harvey had a lot on his mind. Apart from his everyday work, there was the pool area to think about. Work was coming on, the pool itself had been retiled, and soon they would be filling it to check for possible leaks. The wood had been chosen and ordered, and would arrive any day now. That fool Ambrose had all he needed too, so he would soon set to work on the electrical installation. Little by little Harvey would transform the house into something that reflected his own taste, his own style, his own character. He would make it his, he would leave his mark.
Time for one last tour of the grounds. With any luck Brendan and his son would see them before they finished for the day. The more witnesses the better.
How much of this was an elaborate chess move, how much the spontaneous improvisation of an intelligent man? Ask Harvey today and he will deny it all. Is he being insincere? Is he covering his tracks? Is his attitude Machiavellian? Or does he really believe that events unfolded the way he describes them? Are atrocities part of a well-planned conspiracy, a carefully designed campaign, or are they moments of fumbling stupidity? Is murder a strategy or a fatal mistake? Or perhaps no more than an over-exaggerated survival instinct? Either way the end was clear; he wanted a world without Sydneys. And Harvey was accustomed to getting what he wanted.
There are as many versions of what happened on that fateful day as key players. What Pet saw and heard did not necessarily coincide with what Andrea had witnessed. The unfurling of events according to Mr. Stein did not entirely match what Señora Luz told the police. Harvey’s tale of the trail of incompetence that led to tragedy bore little resemblance to the bewildered yet stubborn declaration of Ambrose. Their statements were like so many gospels, each one narrating the same story, but from varying angles.
‘The truth will out’, Pet said solemnly, but it was more of a wishful prophecy than a hard edged fact. The truth is chameleonic. Like beauty, it is in the eye of the beholder. So it comes down to which version you prefer to believe, and in this choice social success once again is a determining aspect. A respected and wealthy member of the community is more likely to be believed than those involved in menial tasks. An influential and eloquent person has more shares in the truth than the unskilled labourer. As Harvey well knew.
The workers had cordoned off the pool area with battered metal barriers and red and white plastic tape, much as the police would do later, in order to maintain the safety regulations. It was in the interests of everyone to obey their instructions. Only qualified personnel were to be allowed inside the working zone. Anybody entering the area did so at their own risk. The rules were to be strictly observed or the insurance company would do what it had done to Spotty’s mother. That was the theory. But Haute House was private property, the labourers soon got to know the household staff, at the weekends nobody was around to make sure the regulations were followed to the letter, and a certain laxity crept in. Pet often wandered in to see if anybody would like a cup of coffee or tea, especially the balding one with the thick eyebrows who seemed to take an interest in her, even if she realised that he was only really fantasising and had no intention of going any further than that. She enjoyed the flirting. Mr. Stein, as overseer, came and went as he pleased, often accompanied by Andrea or Luz. There were no hats, no protective boots. Just be careful and use your common sense, they were told, that should be enough. Even Sydney sneaked in every now and then to watch the men as they cut tiles or loaded skips with rubble. He loved to climb the sand piles, much to Andrea’s horror. Pet watched over him to make sure he came to no harm, and got up to no mischief.
The job was coming on nicely. The whole area had been levelled, and Ambrose was busy laying down the power cables for the lighting. The wooden boards had arrived late on Friday evening while Harvey was still at his office in the city; he would be inspecting them Saturday morning to make sure he had not been duped. Meanwhile a green and yellow hose pipe very slowly, almost imperceptibly, filled the pool.
Saturday morning at Haute House was a dress rehearsal for Sunday morning. Tense, weekday muscles began to relax, clocks lost their rigidity, and movements became less mechanical, more fluid. It was not the total collapse of the system that Sunday demanded, but rather the transition from activity to inactivity. Harvey rarely went into the office at weekends, Sydney had no school, the gardeners were hardly ever to be seen, Andrea had no tennis classes or massages, and usually avoided the shops, always so busy at weekends.
Breakfast was served later, and eaten at a slower pace. Newspapers were read for once instead of being briefly scanned. Obligations remained, especially for the household staff, but there was an air of flexibility about Saturdays and Sundays that made even the most onerous tasks more bearable.
The semi relaxed weekend atmosphere at the House helped explain why, when interrogated by the police, most of them answered vaguely and without precision. They woke up ‘around’ eight o’clock. They had breakfast until ‘nine, nine-thirty’. They had trouble remembering exactly who was with whom, and where. When was virtually impossible. That made the reconstruction of events extremely difficult, and very frustrating. At times they would contradict each other, even themselves, then apologise profusely when this was pointed out to them. The problem with justice, with discerning innocence from guilt, is that we are all such poor witnesses. Which means that the evidence is often weak, or flimsy, or even manipulated. But judgement is passed nonetheless.
Ambrose woke up, as always, at half past seven, but unlike on weekdays he did not actually get out of bed until eight o’clock. He had a lie in. It was a time for half dreams, for body smells, and for other activities he was not proud of but enjoyed immensely. It was his weekend treat this extra half hour in bed, and helped to keep his mind off sex for the rest of the week. Saturday would rid him of the pent up desires of the week, Sunday would drain him enough to make it through to Wednesday or thereabouts when he might be forced to sneak in another one. He knew that Pet knew, well, most of the time, and that she couldn’t agree more. It was far better for him to masturbate twice a week than to have him pining and making a fool of himself over some tart or other from the town.
His sister had decided long ago that she would take control of Ambrose’s love life. Ever since that bitch Annette had tried to weasel her way in with her sinuous charm and her thin lips, smiling so sweetly as she squeezed him dry. Bitch. ‘Can you lend me some more money, can I borrow your sister’s earrings, can you run me into the city, can you promise to always bring me a present, can you do anything I ask whenever I ask it if I let you touch my tits?’ She was a scheming little whore, that one. She had poor Bro hanging around her like a beaten dog. She would make him wait outside in the rain while she got rid of another man. What a slut. And Bro none the wiser, moping around and thinking that that was love. So one day Pet had it out with her. She waited for her outside the hairdresser’s where she worked one windy evening and gave it to her full blast despite the stares of the passersby. Stay away from my brother or I’ll slice you open like a fucking water melon. Annette had sneered, tried to hold her ground, had sworn that they were in love. So Pet had punched her hard on her oh so thin lips and told her once more – like a fucking melon. She had not been seen since.
That had been when they were still living in their parents’ house. Maybe Annette had hoped for a stake in that. Well she could go and fuck the bailiffs. Since then Pet had encouraged her little brother to buy magazines. It was safer. He’d had quite a stack of them in the rented flat, but they had judged it best not to take them to Haute House just in case he was caught with them. Now he worked from memory.
Every so often, on his trips into town
, Ambrose would meet a girl. He was quite good looking, and although he was not the brightest star in the sky, there were still plenty of young women who found him attractive. But Pet soon grounded him if she suspected anything. She would find excuses to keep him on site, and veto any attempt at contact from any female stranger. Bro was hers, and had to be protected. For his own good. Which is why he had no mobile phone, no credit card, no vehicle. And it was Pet who shopped for his clothes and laid them out on the bed for him each morning. Nothing too dowdy, but nothing too upbeat either. It was she who chose his tattoos and where to put them, if he should or should not pierce his ears, how to cut and dye his hair. So, groomed and dressed by his sister, Bro became what Pet preferred a man to be. He was her male doll, and she was proud of him. As long as he didn’t make a mess of the sheets.
Downstairs in the kitchen Pet, who like Luz had been up since seven o’clock, had his breakfast ready. The women had already eaten, and Joe Stein wouldn’t be in before nine, so Ambrose had the table to himself, which he loved. He sat at Stein’s end, presiding the table, and