He felt a shame, the greatest feeling of shame he had ever felt: a guilt about his father crawled over him like ants, always waiting for more pain, from more bites. His father wouldn’t have any ability or place to go to find an understanding of this act, as he remained in what for once could be honestly referred to as blissful ignorance. How could Ever eradicate this from his brain or deal with the relationship he now had with his unknowing father?

It had all changed, his life, his relationship with his mother and father, in the space of a single minute. A single minute that would make the years, however many he lived, never be the same again. How could he make it up to his father, to get his forgiveness, apologise, for an act he assumed he would never know had been committed? All the words, forgiveness, apology, were feeble in comparison to what he had done. He had committed an act that would haunt him: and it did every day of his life.

That morning, the morning after the night, and throughout the day, nothing was said. He said nothing, his mother behaved in her usual grumpy way; the result of the previous night’s alcohol consumption.

The problem was cemented in time for Ever, because it was a year later that his parents split up and ultimately divorced. His father moved permanently to Los Angeles; Ever was left with his mother during school time; during the holidays, he would divide the time and fly to see his father.

*

He never slept in his mother’s bed again.

But the guilt that lay inside him was so profound, his agony was increased by the fact that it could never be discussed or addressed; it existed at a level that was really beyond the acceptable bounds of conversation. But he blamed himself, he always believed that in this incestuous Oedipal act, the desire came from him and was the cause of the break-up of his parents’ marriage.

He has never, to this day, had any idea what his mother’s awareness, if any, was of the situation; it has never been referred to.

Ever is trapped in his own deviant and perverted world of blame.

Ever and his mother rarely communicate: but he puts it down to the alcohol.

Not the fact that he fucked her.

Chapter Twenty-six

After his sojourn in the garage.

He walked back into the house through the door that Manita always used. He had received an email from Miss Money-Root. The email account he had opened specifically for Miss Money-Root, at the same time as becoming Mr Smith for Mr Wong, was in the name of [email protected]: he had introduced himself to her through that guise. Clever name he thought.

With the Lorken gallery logo, her email read:

From the office of Peony Money-Root.

Dear Mr Jacob