‘He’s not here,’ he hissed. ‘It’s me, not Ned. Adam. His brother.’
‘Where’s Ned?’
‘I’ll take you to him,’ Adam lied. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here, Jackson.’
‘Wanna talk to Ned,’ Jackson slurred.
You and me both, thought Adam. As the day had progressed, he had alternated between mild concern and intense irritation at Ned’s continued absence – both underscored by the absolute certainty that, with his brother not there, anything that went wrong tonight would be blamed on him – on Adam – forever.
Seeing two of the security staff hovering, he gestured to them to keep their distance.
Shrugging Adam’s arm irritably from his shoulder, rejecting all assistance, almost missing his step entirely several times, Jackson stumbled his way upstairs.
Adam pointed him in the direction of the door to the lounge. Obviously under the impression he would find Adam’s brother in there, Jackson gave a grunt and headed towards it.
Behind them the hubbub was beginning to pick up again. Laughter. Cries of delight and surprise. They had been a masterstroke, the masks, the hoods, he thought. Everywhere you looked people were trying to guess who was who, some lifting up their masks occasionally for a moment to prove or disprove a guess, to reveal perhaps an unexpected familiar face or the instantly recognizable face of someone you had never met before.
Personally, if one more member assumed he was his brother and slapped him on the shoulder to congratulate him on his party, he was inclined to ditch the bloody mask entirely. Even Annie, as they filed into the ballroom, had sidled up to him to pass him an Old Fashioned, whispering as she did so something about it being a shame for the man of the hour to be without a drink on a night like this, or something equally obsequious. It occurred to him she’d not yet realized Ned was nowhere to be seen.
He drained the dregs of it through his straw, placed the glass down on an oak console table, then hurried down the corridor after Jackson Crane.
Jackson turned to face him as he entered the room.
‘Right, then,’ he said, in what appeared to be an attempt at a British accent. Then, lapsing again into his normal voice: ‘Where’s Ned?’
Adam pushed his mask back on his head.
‘Listen, mate, I can understand why you’re upset. But rather than causing a big scene tonight I think you might actually be better off having a little lie-down, know what I mean?’
Adam indicated with a tilt of his head the big leather couch in the middle of the room.
Jackson took a finger and poked Adam with it, in the lapel, hard.
‘Listen, mate’ – again with the accent thing – ‘I’m not a guy you fuck with, understand. You try to fuck with me, you get fucked, you understand?’
Adam said he understood, half his brain wondering if it was an actual line from one of Jackson’s films or whether it just sounded like one. Something that had always worked in Ned’s favour, in situations like this, Adam suspected, was how rarely someone like Jackson Crane ever found themselves having to deal with anything like this on their own – without a team of people around them to convey ‘how Jackson feels’ or ‘what Jackson would like’， without someone else at the end of a line to make the calls to ensure something happens. It was no wonder, then, that without his supporting cast of yes-men and fixers, he seemed to be slipping into the language of characters he’d played, just as it was no wonder people like him always went along so meekly in the end with what Ned demanded of them – separated from their phones, their lackeys, presented with an ultimatum, faced with the consequences of their actions going public.
Naturally, they usually liked to let off a little steam first.
‘So where is your brother?’ Jackson demanded.