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Is. Not was. ‘But he said he’s letting it go,’ I tell him quietly, almost hesitantly. ‘He told me he doesn’t need to find it any more.’
Becker’s granddad’s smile is sympathetic. I don’t like it. ‘I have lost my reckless son and my innocent daughter-in-law because of a silly family competitiveness that goes back nearly a hundred years.’ There’s a bitterness in his tone that I just cannot comprehend. The word reckless is on the long list of words that I would use to describe Becker. Along with maverick. Both signify elements of risk. Becker takes risks. I’ve considered them to be calculated. Now I’m not so sure. While Becker’s father was pushed to take the risks that resulted in his death, I don’t think Becker needs that push. I think he takes risks without thought. Like it’s inbuilt.
‘Becker promised me he had both stopped looking for the sculpture and stopped provoking Wilson,’ Mr H goes on. ‘He did neither, so I’m mad with him. He lied to his own grandfather,’ he finishes, leaving that last statement lingering. What he means and hasn’t said, is that if Becker would lie to his flesh and blood, then he wouldn’t think twice about lying to me.
‘Right,’ I murmur dejectedly, my eyes dropping to my lap.
‘You know him by now, Eleanor. Everything about him. You don’t need me to tell you, but I will tell you this.’ Struggling forward a little, he smiles. ‘Life is more precious than anything,’ he almost whispers, but I hear it like a foghorn. ‘I hope Becker realises that quicker than I or his father did. He has you, and I can see how fond he is of you. It fills my heart with joy. But I’m not delusional. And you shouldn’t be, either. He’s like a dog with a bone, and not even you can make him let go.’
I stare at the old man, absorbing everything he’s told me. Life is more precious. I’m certain Becker thinks that now, but what if he won’t give up on that sculpture? What if this is something I have to accept? And if I do accept it, am I prepared to watch him self-destruct? Or fail? Or end up like his father? Dead. I flinch. And what about me? Will I end up like Becker’s mother? I’m flinching again. Life is more precious. I’ll never forget Becker’s words and the sincerity in them when he told me the tortured tale of his parents’ deaths. I’m more important to him than that sculpture. That’s what he told me. But I also appreciate his passion. His addiction to the thrill. And I can’t lie, there are moments more regular than I will ever admit that I myself wonder. I wonder if it can be found. I wonder what Becker’s face would look like if he did find it. Wonder where it is. Wonder how it would feel. My heart skips and I fight to control it. It’s not worth the risk. But the bigger the risk, the bigger the reward. Finding Head of a Faun would be the ultimate reward for Becker. And him finding the peace he’ll get from that would be the ultimate reward for me.
I’m not sure how long I’m lost in my thoughts, but when I finally glance up, Mr H is staring intently at the computer screen, as if he knows what I’ve been pondering and doesn’t want to disturb me. ‘What have we here, then?’ he muses quietly.
‘What’s that?’ I ask, craning my neck to try and get the screen of the computer in view.
‘Just rewinding through the CCTV footage. Winston was chasing something up the corridor last night. I worry about rats.’
I grimace on a shudder, hoping I misheard him. ‘Rats?’
He hums his confirmation. ‘Central London, sewers, and old buildings unfortunately attract the little blighters.’
I shiver, like I could have an army of them crawling all over my skin right now. ‘Ewww.’
‘Goodness Goliath!’ Mr H hollers, flying back in his chair like something has jumped out of the screen and slapped him. I recoil, shocked, as he starts grappling with the keyboard. ‘Lord above, make it stop.’ He surrenders the keyboard and covers his glasses with his palms. I’m about to go to his aid, help him out and shut down the screen, when I remember what he was looking for. I remain in my seat. Rats. My mind starts to conjure up the image of a filthy great big rodent. If he’s spotted one, then I don’t want to see it. Oh God, we have rats?
I’m useless in my chair while Mr H repeatedly peeks through spread fingers, groaning in anguish each time he does before snapping them shut and shaking his head. He’s going to have a seizure.
The power. Cut the power. I start to search for the socket, set on wrenching the plug out so I don’t have to face what’s clearly a monster of a rat on the screen of the computer, but with no obvious cables leading anywhere, I drop to my knees and scramble under the desk.
