Beijer Thread - Chapter 1
London - August 2017
In a cluttered study, full of discarded history, one silver-framed photograph is carefully positioned at the centre of a white marble mantelpiece. It's the only place in the small room that is otherwise clear of the accumulated fragments of Max's life. Its loneliness calls attention to itself and every visitor is drawn to examine it. They see the face of a serious young man staring out from a darkened room. The right side of his head catches the light from an unseen window, highlighting his blond unkempt hair and painting shadows across his angular features. His left eye is hidden in eternal darkness. He is wearing a tight white vest which emphasising his developing musculature. The suggestion of an emerging man filters through his boyish façade. A man who will never come into existence. This is the last ever photograph taken of Samuel Carter.
Max’s gaze is fixed on this reminder of his dead son. Sam’s image stays in his mind when he closes his eyes but Max finds it too painful to replay his memories of their short time together. When one forces its way in, Max banishes it as best he can. Only in his dreams do they resurface and refuse to be exiled. Max’s only escape from Sam’s ghost is Amniol. A sure end to his career if he is caught, he is taking the drug more often. He places the small green pill on his tongue and waits for the effects to kick in.
It numbs the pain and helps Max submerge his consciousness in fantasy. Here Sam still lives. His life plays out on a hypothetical stage with Max directing the action. All the things Sam might have done and might have achieved are being realised in the private theatre of Max's mind. The illusion of a perfect son who never makes mistakes.
On this, the second anniversary of Sam's death, the radio news penetrates Max's drug induced illusions and brings him back to reality. Yesterday's attacks echo the terrible bombings of two years ago, in which Sam and his friend David were caught up. It cost David a broken arm and a million nightmares. It cost Sam his life. Max listens to news of the latest bombings in the company of thousands of other listeners.
"All of the affected stations are closed and will not be operational for some weeks. We're going over to Trish Carter in central London, who has been talking with some of the survivors."
At the sound of his wife's name, Max turns up the volume on the radio. She didn't change her surname after they separated, claiming that continuity would better suit her career. Max chose to believe the real reason was that she, like him, expected their separation to be temporary. He's not sure when that hope should be abandoned. It's been nearly two years since they separated and Patricia, as Max prefers to call her, is now dating his boss, George Hammond. After nearly twenty years together he isn't ready to give up just yet.
Patricia's words echo in his ears. She is talking in a formal voice which conveys sincerity and authority. She allows just a hint of emotion to colour its tone, a device she has cultivated. Listeners often mistake this for genuine empathy and this helps her maintain high approval ratings. In this case, of course, the emotion is sincere. Her professional manner hides the worst of her pain but Max detects it. Sam can't be far from her mind.
"The King has sent a message from Balmoral to all those who have been touched by this tragedy. He said he was deeply disturbed by this incident and sent his sympathy to all those affected."
Patricia pauses briefly and Max recognises this as a ploy for her to maintain her composure.
"The Prime Minister has promised that the Military Police Authority will be provided with all necessary resources to ensure that those responsible are brought to justice. He expressed his deep anger and sadness for what has happened and paid tribute to the sterling work of the emergency services."
Max loses his concentration as memories jostle for position in his mind. They refuse to be pushed out of his thoughts. Despite himself, a smile crosses his face as Sam fills his mind. A tear spills down his cheek as Max remembers the last time they spent together. Sam was singing in his usual flat and off key drone, some eulogy to a lost love. Max crept behind him and grabbed him around the waist as a particularly painful note issued forth. They laughed as Max wrestled him to the ground and covered his mouth with his large hands. They stopped their wrestling as the kick-off was announced by the TV prompter Max had set earlier that day. They settled down to watch the match. Their shared love of football was the cement of their relationship. They didn’t go in for fishing or other forms of father son bonding, they didn’t need to. Succumbing to this memory allowed Max’s grief to breach the amniol barrier. The empty pain becomes his whole world and it is only with supreme effort that he eventually manages to bring himself under control. He wonders how Patricia is holding it together. Max is quietly impressed and returns his full attention to her report.
"The co-ordinated bomb attacks on London's underground system have left 70 people dead and over one thousand injured. Four key interchange stations were targeted during yesterday's morning rush hour: Oxford Circus, King's Cross, Waterloo and Stratford. This is the third major terrorist attack in London during the past two years and angry relatives of those caught up in the blasts have called for tighter controls. Head of the Military Police Authority, Sir Anthony Steel, said the attacks were clearly orchestrated by the Neo-Nationalist Coalition, although they have not yet claimed responsibility. He went on to say that the MPA would do all that it could to protect the public from any further attacks. He will be talking with the Home Secretary later today about the additional powers the MPA will seek to ensure the future security of the Capital."
The phone rings and Max turns off the radio before answering. The caller display tells him it's George so he doesn't switch on his video upload, he doesn't want George to see him before he's had a chance to wash and dress. He presses the connection button. Within a second an image of George is staring out of the screen. He looks immaculate: short black hair, neatly trimmed, shirt and tie in matching blues and a smile showing just the tips of perfect teeth. The smile soon disintegrates as George launches into his reason for calling.
"I hope I am not disturbing you, Max," he begins. "I know you're not working today."
This preamble is simply a nod to polite convention and as if to underline that point, George doesn't wait for an answer.
"You've heard Steel on the radio, I suppose?" This time he does wait for an answer.
"Yes, I have." Max doesn't want to talk to George today.
"There's a meeting Monday at the Home Office. It'll be just the three of us: Steel, the Home Secretary and me." George's voice grows louder. "Steel's with the Home Secretary today so it will be a fait accompli unless I can come up with something good."
Max knows what George is hinting at and decides to cut him off.
"I'm sorry, George. I'm going to visit Sam this afternoon, I can't help you."
George's nod of acceptance pixelates on screen, but he is whole again before he speaks, his voice much softer now.
"We're meeting you at the cemetery. I thought that maybe …"
He doesn't finish the sentence, Max knows George is waiting for him to volunteer to use his relationship with Leonard, an old friend and senior member of the MPA, to find out what Steel is planning. He stays silent while the tensions within him try to find balance.
"I'm sorry, George."
George casts his eyes downwards. A serious expression on his face.
"Max, it's just one phone call and it could make all the difference. You know what this could do to the CPA."
Max is well aware of the pressure the Civil Police Authority will come under if the MPA become any stronger. In the five years since the MPA was formed, its power and influence had grown and the CPA had become increasingly sidelined. No-one is interested in liberal policing when there are terrorists robbing parents of their children, husbands of their wives and people of their friends. The public are crying out for strong determined action from Government and are willing to pay the price of restricted freedoms. The MPA will not have to fight too hard for more power and authority; politicians will fall over themselves to be seen to be taking decisive action.
George's now expressionless face stares out of the screen waiting for a response. Max realises that there is a temporary reversal of power in their relationship and he wants to make the most of it. Max knows he’s being played. George thinks he is far more likely to listen to his own conscience than to any argument that George might make. And he's right. He doesn't need to spell out the consequences. George is relying on Max's passion to change his mind.
From anyone else, this might not sound an unreasonable request. But this is George asking, the man who stole his wife, the man who makes going into work each day a trial and the man who shows no respect for Sam's memory. Why should he help this man who has piece by piece stolen his life? Today the Civil Police Authority will have to fight its battle with the MPA without him. Except, it's too important to let personal feelings about George dictate his actions. The CPA is the only credible opposition to the MPA and it's for that reason that Max still works there, despite all that has happened. He has to play his part in the struggle for power. As the silent pause in the conversation lengthens it becomes more difficult for Max to respond. Eventually he finds the words.
"I'll talk to Leonard and let you know what I find out."
"Thanks, Max." George smiles as he answers. "We can catch up at the cemetery."
Max feels his anger rise to the surface.
"Fuck you, George."
George raises his hands to ward off the force of Max's outburst.
"I'm sorry, Max. I'll wait for you to call."
Max disconnects without the usual pleasantries. Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him. He goes back to the lonely photograph on the mantelpiece, picks it up and holds it to his chest as he finally gives way to the flood of tears that were always going to come.
*****
In a sitting-room full of treasured possessions, a row of ornately framed photographs preserve happy memories. Sam's picture is nestled among the faces of others caught at moments of joy. The light from a summer's sun creeps unseen into his room and shrouds him in a golden glow. It highlights his blond hair, which is uncombed and endearingly ruffled. His well-defined features are brought into stark relief in the harsh scrutiny of one sided illumination. His right eye sparkles at the sun's touch. He's wearing a dirty white vest, testament to his recent exploits on the local football pitch. He's still a boy but there's something in his expression of the man he could become, a hint of the seriousness of the world stealing into his thoughts. It's a fitting reminder of a complex son, but of course Patricia wishes that other pictures of Sam could have followed.
She picks up the photograph and looks at the image. She smiles through the wave of sadness that washes over her and remembers how much she loved to be in Sam's company. He would look across at her with mischief in his eye and she would smile to herself. A quick wink to elicit the complicity of his mother and Sam would begin a gentle ribbing of his father. Patricia's mind returned to the living room of two years ago just as such a silent pact had been made. She heard Sam again as he spoke to his father, the occasional word in a deep low-pitched tone as his voice began to break. Dad, I meant to give you a message earlier. George phoned, he wants you in the office by ten.
Patricia laughed at the panic that swept across Max's face as he shot up from the chair and started asking Sam when the call had come and how George sounded. Sam's laughing was infectious and she joined in as momentary confusion made a home on Max's face. But Max took it in good humour and gently cuffed Sam's ear. Then they started talking about sport. The only time Patricia had been excluded from Sam's attention was when Sam and Max talked about football, but she would wait patiently until her son returned to her. As she looks at the face in the frame she knows she has lost him forever, but these memories bring her comfort.
Patricia places the photograph of Sam back in its place and heads to the bedroom. She kicks off her shoes and rubs a weary foot. She has been on her feet all morning, racing across London to interview the survivors from the latest terrorist atrocity. It has been difficult; memories of Sam haunted her. As she was interviewing a young boy of sixteen who had survived the attack, she was struck by how calm he remained throughout their talk. She imagined that Sam would have been just as brave, if he'd survived. This thought had shored up her resolve and helped her finish the morning's work; but it was still draining. She lies on the bed for a few moments with her eyes closed, thinking of nothing, just enjoying the feeling of peace after the violence of the day. A little refreshed, she strips off her work clothes and takes a shower.
As she applies her make-up, before dressing for her afternoon visit to Sam's grave, she notices a few grey hairs lining her short auburn hair. She picks up the tweezers and pulls out the reminders of growing older. She admires herself in the mirror; she is not looking bad for having celebrated forty three birthdays. It's true, a few wrinkles provide evidence to the passing years, but the deep brown eyes are still vibrant and the skin still soft and smooth. There is little of Sam reflected in her features; he was clearly his father's son: the blond hair, the baby-blue eyes and the same high cheekbones. All combine to make a handsome picture; and Max was a handsome youth. Even as he got older, Patricia found him attractive despite the slight thickening of his athletic body.
A car-horn beeps. Patricia peers through the curtain to see George parked in the street. She pulls on her jacket, grabs the flowers she bought on her way home and heads out. George has the car open and waiting for her. He kisses her on the cheek as she gets in.
"Sorry I'm a bit late, got caught up at the office."
Patricia leans across and straightens his jacket collar, catching a trace of cigar odour.
They drive to the cemetery listening to music. It's only as they park that George broaches the subject of Max.
"I upset Max earlier today, he's likely to be in a bad mood."
Patricia isn't surprised. At her request, George recounts the earlier conversation.
"Don't worry, Georgie, anything you do will upset him today."
"I really need him on-side, though. If there's anything you can do…"
The conversation is brought to an abrupt end as Max knocks on the passenger window. Patricia and George get out of the car. Max stares at George but no mention is made of their earlier dialogue. After a lacklustre exchange of greetings, the unlikely threesome walk over in silence to Sam's grave.
George pays his respects before leaving the parents to their son. Both stand in quiet contemplation for a while, each shedding a few silent tears. Max puts his right arm around Patricia's waist; it feels awkward for her but she allows it for a few moments before bending down to place the flowers next to the stone marking Sam's grave. The wet earth has a damp metallic smell which competes with the sweetness of the bright yellow freesias it now holds. Before standing, she brushes off the moss on the headstone. The worst is cleared away by her gloved hand which then traces out the letters of Sam's name where it has been carved into the stone. It's at this point that the restraint of the day is surrendered to a flood of emotions that breach her composure. Max puts his arms around her as she stands and she sobs into the shoulder of his soft black jacket until there are no more tears to cry. She is grateful that Max manages to control his feelings and enjoys the warmth of his love soothing her pain. As she regains her composure, she pulls away and dries her eyes, feeling slightly embarrassed. Slowly, Patricia draws Max away from the graveside and they walk over to the car. She doesn't want to breakdown in front of Max again and so talks about something other than Sam.
"Have you spoken with Leonard? You know that George really needs your support just now, don't you?" She asks Max.
"We're not even out of the cemetery yet."
Patricia watches Max's expression darken but is too intent on her own feelings to pander to Max's outrage.
"I know, Max, but there isn't much time. It's important, or I wouldn't ask."
"I'm not going to talk about this now."
"Then when, Max? When it's too late." She knows she is pushing him but she also knows he cares too much about what's happening not to help. He's just making George sweat. She waits for Max to answer. He looks at her and then quickly away.
"I have to go now." He heads towards his car.
"But are you going to help?" she calls out after him.
He doesn't reply.
In a cluttered study, full of discarded history, one silver-framed photograph is carefully positioned at the centre of a white marble mantelpiece. It's the only place in the small room that is otherwise clear of the accumulated fragments of Max's life. Its loneliness calls attention to itself and every visitor is drawn to examine it. They see the face of a serious young man staring out from a darkened room. The right side of his head catches the light from an unseen window, highlighting his blond unkempt hair and painting shadows across his angular features. His left eye is hidden in eternal darkness. He is wearing a tight white vest which emphasising his developing musculature. The suggestion of an emerging man filters through his boyish façade. A man who will never come into existence. This is the last ever photograph taken of Samuel Carter.
Max’s gaze is fixed on this reminder of his dead son. Sam’s image stays in his mind when he closes his eyes but Max finds it too painful to replay his memories of their short time together. When one forces its way in, Max banishes it as best he can. Only in his dreams do they resurface and refuse to be exiled. Max’s only escape from Sam’s ghost is Amniol. A sure end to his career if he is caught, he is taking the drug more often. He places the small green pill on his tongue and waits for the effects to kick in.
It numbs the pain and helps Max submerge his consciousness in fantasy. Here Sam still lives. His life plays out on a hypothetical stage with Max directing the action. All the things Sam might have done and might have achieved are being realised in the private theatre of Max's mind. The illusion of a perfect son who never makes mistakes.
On this, the second anniversary of Sam's death, the radio news penetrates Max's drug induced illusions and brings him back to reality. Yesterday's attacks echo the terrible bombings of two years ago, in which Sam and his friend David were caught up. It cost David a broken arm and a million nightmares. It cost Sam his life. Max listens to news of the latest bombings in the company of thousands of other listeners.
"All of the affected stations are closed and will not be operational for some weeks. We're going over to Trish Carter in central London, who has been talking with some of the survivors."
At the sound of his wife's name, Max turns up the volume on the radio. She didn't change her surname after they separated, claiming that continuity would better suit her career. Max chose to believe the real reason was that she, like him, expected their separation to be temporary. He's not sure when that hope should be abandoned. It's been nearly two years since they separated and Patricia, as Max prefers to call her, is now dating his boss, George Hammond. After nearly twenty years together he isn't ready to give up just yet.
Patricia's words echo in his ears. She is talking in a formal voice which conveys sincerity and authority. She allows just a hint of emotion to colour its tone, a device she has cultivated. Listeners often mistake this for genuine empathy and this helps her maintain high approval ratings. In this case, of course, the emotion is sincere. Her professional manner hides the worst of her pain but Max detects it. Sam can't be far from her mind.
"The King has sent a message from Balmoral to all those who have been touched by this tragedy. He said he was deeply disturbed by this incident and sent his sympathy to all those affected."
Patricia pauses briefly and Max recognises this as a ploy for her to maintain her composure.
"The Prime Minister has promised that the Military Police Authority will be provided with all necessary resources to ensure that those responsible are brought to justice. He expressed his deep anger and sadness for what has happened and paid tribute to the sterling work of the emergency services."
Max loses his concentration as memories jostle for position in his mind. They refuse to be pushed out of his thoughts. Despite himself, a smile crosses his face as Sam fills his mind. A tear spills down his cheek as Max remembers the last time they spent together. Sam was singing in his usual flat and off key drone, some eulogy to a lost love. Max crept behind him and grabbed him around the waist as a particularly painful note issued forth. They laughed as Max wrestled him to the ground and covered his mouth with his large hands. They stopped their wrestling as the kick-off was announced by the TV prompter Max had set earlier that day. They settled down to watch the match. Their shared love of football was the cement of their relationship. They didn’t go in for fishing or other forms of father son bonding, they didn’t need to. Succumbing to this memory allowed Max’s grief to breach the amniol barrier. The empty pain becomes his whole world and it is only with supreme effort that he eventually manages to bring himself under control. He wonders how Patricia is holding it together. Max is quietly impressed and returns his full attention to her report.
"The co-ordinated bomb attacks on London's underground system have left 70 people dead and over one thousand injured. Four key interchange stations were targeted during yesterday's morning rush hour: Oxford Circus, King's Cross, Waterloo and Stratford. This is the third major terrorist attack in London during the past two years and angry relatives of those caught up in the blasts have called for tighter controls. Head of the Military Police Authority, Sir Anthony Steel, said the attacks were clearly orchestrated by the Neo-Nationalist Coalition, although they have not yet claimed responsibility. He went on to say that the MPA would do all that it could to protect the public from any further attacks. He will be talking with the Home Secretary later today about the additional powers the MPA will seek to ensure the future security of the Capital."
The phone rings and Max turns off the radio before answering. The caller display tells him it's George so he doesn't switch on his video upload, he doesn't want George to see him before he's had a chance to wash and dress. He presses the connection button. Within a second an image of George is staring out of the screen. He looks immaculate: short black hair, neatly trimmed, shirt and tie in matching blues and a smile showing just the tips of perfect teeth. The smile soon disintegrates as George launches into his reason for calling.
"I hope I am not disturbing you, Max," he begins. "I know you're not working today."
This preamble is simply a nod to polite convention and as if to underline that point, George doesn't wait for an answer.
"You've heard Steel on the radio, I suppose?" This time he does wait for an answer.
"Yes, I have." Max doesn't want to talk to George today.
"There's a meeting Monday at the Home Office. It'll be just the three of us: Steel, the Home Secretary and me." George's voice grows louder. "Steel's with the Home Secretary today so it will be a fait accompli unless I can come up with something good."
Max knows what George is hinting at and decides to cut him off.
"I'm sorry, George. I'm going to visit Sam this afternoon, I can't help you."
George's nod of acceptance pixelates on screen, but he is whole again before he speaks, his voice much softer now.
"We're meeting you at the cemetery. I thought that maybe …"
He doesn't finish the sentence, Max knows George is waiting for him to volunteer to use his relationship with Leonard, an old friend and senior member of the MPA, to find out what Steel is planning. He stays silent while the tensions within him try to find balance.
"I'm sorry, George."
George casts his eyes downwards. A serious expression on his face.
"Max, it's just one phone call and it could make all the difference. You know what this could do to the CPA."
Max is well aware of the pressure the Civil Police Authority will come under if the MPA become any stronger. In the five years since the MPA was formed, its power and influence had grown and the CPA had become increasingly sidelined. No-one is interested in liberal policing when there are terrorists robbing parents of their children, husbands of their wives and people of their friends. The public are crying out for strong determined action from Government and are willing to pay the price of restricted freedoms. The MPA will not have to fight too hard for more power and authority; politicians will fall over themselves to be seen to be taking decisive action.
George's now expressionless face stares out of the screen waiting for a response. Max realises that there is a temporary reversal of power in their relationship and he wants to make the most of it. Max knows he’s being played. George thinks he is far more likely to listen to his own conscience than to any argument that George might make. And he's right. He doesn't need to spell out the consequences. George is relying on Max's passion to change his mind.
From anyone else, this might not sound an unreasonable request. But this is George asking, the man who stole his wife, the man who makes going into work each day a trial and the man who shows no respect for Sam's memory. Why should he help this man who has piece by piece stolen his life? Today the Civil Police Authority will have to fight its battle with the MPA without him. Except, it's too important to let personal feelings about George dictate his actions. The CPA is the only credible opposition to the MPA and it's for that reason that Max still works there, despite all that has happened. He has to play his part in the struggle for power. As the silent pause in the conversation lengthens it becomes more difficult for Max to respond. Eventually he finds the words.
"I'll talk to Leonard and let you know what I find out."
"Thanks, Max." George smiles as he answers. "We can catch up at the cemetery."
Max feels his anger rise to the surface.
"Fuck you, George."
George raises his hands to ward off the force of Max's outburst.
"I'm sorry, Max. I'll wait for you to call."
Max disconnects without the usual pleasantries. Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him. He goes back to the lonely photograph on the mantelpiece, picks it up and holds it to his chest as he finally gives way to the flood of tears that were always going to come.
*****
In a sitting-room full of treasured possessions, a row of ornately framed photographs preserve happy memories. Sam's picture is nestled among the faces of others caught at moments of joy. The light from a summer's sun creeps unseen into his room and shrouds him in a golden glow. It highlights his blond hair, which is uncombed and endearingly ruffled. His well-defined features are brought into stark relief in the harsh scrutiny of one sided illumination. His right eye sparkles at the sun's touch. He's wearing a dirty white vest, testament to his recent exploits on the local football pitch. He's still a boy but there's something in his expression of the man he could become, a hint of the seriousness of the world stealing into his thoughts. It's a fitting reminder of a complex son, but of course Patricia wishes that other pictures of Sam could have followed.
She picks up the photograph and looks at the image. She smiles through the wave of sadness that washes over her and remembers how much she loved to be in Sam's company. He would look across at her with mischief in his eye and she would smile to herself. A quick wink to elicit the complicity of his mother and Sam would begin a gentle ribbing of his father. Patricia's mind returned to the living room of two years ago just as such a silent pact had been made. She heard Sam again as he spoke to his father, the occasional word in a deep low-pitched tone as his voice began to break. Dad, I meant to give you a message earlier. George phoned, he wants you in the office by ten.
Patricia laughed at the panic that swept across Max's face as he shot up from the chair and started asking Sam when the call had come and how George sounded. Sam's laughing was infectious and she joined in as momentary confusion made a home on Max's face. But Max took it in good humour and gently cuffed Sam's ear. Then they started talking about sport. The only time Patricia had been excluded from Sam's attention was when Sam and Max talked about football, but she would wait patiently until her son returned to her. As she looks at the face in the frame she knows she has lost him forever, but these memories bring her comfort.
Patricia places the photograph of Sam back in its place and heads to the bedroom. She kicks off her shoes and rubs a weary foot. She has been on her feet all morning, racing across London to interview the survivors from the latest terrorist atrocity. It has been difficult; memories of Sam haunted her. As she was interviewing a young boy of sixteen who had survived the attack, she was struck by how calm he remained throughout their talk. She imagined that Sam would have been just as brave, if he'd survived. This thought had shored up her resolve and helped her finish the morning's work; but it was still draining. She lies on the bed for a few moments with her eyes closed, thinking of nothing, just enjoying the feeling of peace after the violence of the day. A little refreshed, she strips off her work clothes and takes a shower.
As she applies her make-up, before dressing for her afternoon visit to Sam's grave, she notices a few grey hairs lining her short auburn hair. She picks up the tweezers and pulls out the reminders of growing older. She admires herself in the mirror; she is not looking bad for having celebrated forty three birthdays. It's true, a few wrinkles provide evidence to the passing years, but the deep brown eyes are still vibrant and the skin still soft and smooth. There is little of Sam reflected in her features; he was clearly his father's son: the blond hair, the baby-blue eyes and the same high cheekbones. All combine to make a handsome picture; and Max was a handsome youth. Even as he got older, Patricia found him attractive despite the slight thickening of his athletic body.
A car-horn beeps. Patricia peers through the curtain to see George parked in the street. She pulls on her jacket, grabs the flowers she bought on her way home and heads out. George has the car open and waiting for her. He kisses her on the cheek as she gets in.
"Sorry I'm a bit late, got caught up at the office."
Patricia leans across and straightens his jacket collar, catching a trace of cigar odour.
They drive to the cemetery listening to music. It's only as they park that George broaches the subject of Max.
"I upset Max earlier today, he's likely to be in a bad mood."
Patricia isn't surprised. At her request, George recounts the earlier conversation.
"Don't worry, Georgie, anything you do will upset him today."
"I really need him on-side, though. If there's anything you can do…"
The conversation is brought to an abrupt end as Max knocks on the passenger window. Patricia and George get out of the car. Max stares at George but no mention is made of their earlier dialogue. After a lacklustre exchange of greetings, the unlikely threesome walk over in silence to Sam's grave.
George pays his respects before leaving the parents to their son. Both stand in quiet contemplation for a while, each shedding a few silent tears. Max puts his right arm around Patricia's waist; it feels awkward for her but she allows it for a few moments before bending down to place the flowers next to the stone marking Sam's grave. The wet earth has a damp metallic smell which competes with the sweetness of the bright yellow freesias it now holds. Before standing, she brushes off the moss on the headstone. The worst is cleared away by her gloved hand which then traces out the letters of Sam's name where it has been carved into the stone. It's at this point that the restraint of the day is surrendered to a flood of emotions that breach her composure. Max puts his arms around her as she stands and she sobs into the shoulder of his soft black jacket until there are no more tears to cry. She is grateful that Max manages to control his feelings and enjoys the warmth of his love soothing her pain. As she regains her composure, she pulls away and dries her eyes, feeling slightly embarrassed. Slowly, Patricia draws Max away from the graveside and they walk over to the car. She doesn't want to breakdown in front of Max again and so talks about something other than Sam.
"Have you spoken with Leonard? You know that George really needs your support just now, don't you?" She asks Max.
"We're not even out of the cemetery yet."
Patricia watches Max's expression darken but is too intent on her own feelings to pander to Max's outrage.
"I know, Max, but there isn't much time. It's important, or I wouldn't ask."
"I'm not going to talk about this now."
"Then when, Max? When it's too late." She knows she is pushing him but she also knows he cares too much about what's happening not to help. He's just making George sweat. She waits for Max to answer. He looks at her and then quickly away.
"I have to go now." He heads towards his car.
"But are you going to help?" she calls out after him.
He doesn't reply.