And you close your eyes and hope to dream
Remember this:
I hope you die in a fire
I hope you die in a raging inferno of pain
31st January, 1895 — Algernon Rowle’s Residence, Wellingtonshire
In the past year, Philip had avoided these visits as much as he could – he had never agreed to this, so why not let any details of his life or apparent concern for his father be filtered instead through his siblings on their visits? He had not felt any pleasure being in the same room as Algernon Rowle since he had been looking on him in the hospital bed; and this man was far from that dying thing. A cockroach through and through.
But so far Philip had refrained from blowing up all their lives in the way he wanted to – instead he was playing along. And it was better to think of this as some perverse little game, a grand charade to play – a neater parody of Philip Rowle stepping into his shoes.
He had started going so far as to take calming draughts before he came, once his father began asking him when he would be visiting (there was little option implied). He had come after work, swigging the draught on the way. It dulled Philip’s anger just enough to be able to sit in a chair and face him, smoothed his emotions and expressions. Beneath that, he still knew the simmering hatred, but – as if it was underwater or out of reach. Not so different from the Imperius Curse.
“You look well, Father,” Philip said, ever surprised to find that the last word was not tangibly corrosive on his tongue. “How are you getting on?”
But so far Philip had refrained from blowing up all their lives in the way he wanted to – instead he was playing along. And it was better to think of this as some perverse little game, a grand charade to play – a neater parody of Philip Rowle stepping into his shoes.
He had started going so far as to take calming draughts before he came, once his father began asking him when he would be visiting (there was little option implied). He had come after work, swigging the draught on the way. It dulled Philip’s anger just enough to be able to sit in a chair and face him, smoothed his emotions and expressions. Beneath that, he still knew the simmering hatred, but – as if it was underwater or out of reach. Not so different from the Imperius Curse.
“You look well, Father,” Philip said, ever surprised to find that the last word was not tangibly corrosive on his tongue. “How are you getting on?”
