she? I can come and swear that you only drank water yesterday … even if a fair bit of it was seawater.’
‘I don’t know … it’s just so ridiculous that I have to pretend to be an alcoholic so I don’t lose my job.’
‘But it can’t be a bad idea for you to take it a bit—’
‘Stop that. I don’t want to hear it,’ Rex interrupts.
‘I didn’t mean it in a bad way,’ DJ says quietly.
Rex sighs and looks through the railing at the entrance to the big sports stadium that was built for the 1912 Olympics.
‘Have you heard that the Foreign Minister is dead?’ he asks.
‘Of course.’
‘We had a complicated relationship,’ Rex says.
‘In what way?’
‘I didn’t like him,’ he replies, and walks through the stadium entrance and out onto the red track.
‘OK, but you shouldn’t talk about that just after his death,’ DJ says calmly.
‘It isn’t just that …’
David Jordan says nothing as Rex admits what he did. He says that he had a little too much to drink three weeks ago and just happened to urinate in the Foreign Minister’s swimming pool.
He concludes the confession by saying that he got all the garden gnomes and threw them into the pool as well.
Rex walks out onto the football field and stops at the centre circle.
The empty stands surround him. He remembers that some of the gnomes floated while others sank onto the bottom, surrounded by little air-bubbles.
‘OK,’ DJ says after a long silence. ‘Does anyone else know what you did?’
‘The security cameras.’
‘If there’s a scandal, the investors will pull out – you know that. You do realise that, don’t you?’
‘What should I do?’ Rex asks pathetically.
‘Go to the funeral,’ DJ says slowly. ‘I’ll make sure you get invited. Talk about it on social media, say you lost your best friend. Talk about him and his political achievements with the greatest respect.’
‘That’ll look bad if the security footage gets out,’ Rex says.
‘Yes, I know. But pre-empt it by getting in first and talking about your jokey relationship and the silly pranks you used to play on each other. Say that you sometimes went too far, but that was just what you were both like. Don’t admit to anything specific, because with any luck the recording has already been deleted.’
‘Thanks.’
‘What did you have against the Foreign Minister, anyway?’ DJ asks with interest.
‘He was always a slippery bastard, and a bully. I’m going to piss on his grave – one last prank.’
‘As long as no one films you,’ David Jordan laughs, and ends the conversation.
Sammy is sitting on the bed drying his hair with a towel when Rex walks into his hospital room.
‘Nice make-up, Dad,’ he says in a hoarse voice.
‘Oh, yeah,’ Rex says. ‘I came straight from the studio.’
He takes a step towards the bed. Chaotic images of the stomach pump and his own angst at the Foreign Minister’s death fight for space in his head.
He reminds himself the only option right now is to stay calm, not to be judgemental.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asks tentatively.
‘OK, I guess,’ Sammy replies. ‘My neck hurts. Like someone pushed a tube down my throat.’
‘I’ll make some soup when we get home,’ Rex says.
‘You just missed the doctor. Apparently I need to talk to a counsellor before I’m allowed to leave.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘She’s coming at one o’clock.’
‘I have time to see DJ before then,’ Rex says when he realises that he has an AA meeting in half an hour. ‘But I’ll come straight back after that … we can get a taxi home.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Sammy, we need to talk.’
‘OK,’ his son says, clamming up instantly.
‘I don’t ever want to have to go through this again,’ Rex begins.
‘It can’t have been much fun,’ Sammy says, turning his head away.
‘No,’ Rex replies.
‘Dad’s a celebrity,’ Sammy says with a crooked smile. ‘Dad’s a superstar TV chef, and he doesn’t want a failure for a son, a faggot who wears make-up and …’
‘I don’t give a damn about that,’ Rex interrupts.
‘You don’t have to put up with me for long, just a few weeks,’ his son says.
‘I hope we can still have a reasonable time together – but you have to promise to try.’
Sammy raises his eyebrows.
‘What? How am I supposed to try? Is this about Nico?’
‘This isn’t some kind of moral debate,’ Rex explains. ‘I don’t have an opinion, I believe that love just happens between people.’
‘Who’s talking about love?’ Sammy mutters.
‘Sex, then.’
‘Did you love Mum?’ Sammy asks.
‘I don’t know. I was very immature,’ Rex replies honestly. ‘But now, in hindsight, I can see that she was the person I should have stayed with … I would have liked to have lived my life with the two of you.’
‘Look, Dad, I’m nineteen years old. I don’t get it. What do you want from me?’
‘No more stomach pumps, for a start.’
Sammy gets slowly to his feet and goes to hang the towel up.
‘I thought Nico was counting the pills he was giving me,’ he says when he comes back. ‘But there were too many.’
‘Count for yourself in the future.’
‘I’m weak-willed. And it’s actually OK for me to be weak,’ he replies quickly.
‘Then you won’t make it. There’s no place for weakness in this world.’
‘OK, Dad.’
‘Sammy, it’s not like I’m making this up – that’s just the way it is.’
His son is leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded. His cheeks are flushed and he swallows hard.
‘Promise me you won’t do anything dangerous,’ Rex says.
‘Why not?’ Sammy whispers.
No terrorist organisation has claimed responsibility for the murder, but the Security Police don’t think that’s strange given the specific nature of the attack. The underlying reason for shooting the Foreign Minister is to frighten a small group of high-ranking politicians rather than terrify the general population.
On Sunday they continue evaluating the forensic evidence and the thousands of lab