Undisturbed, I can swim fifty lengths of the Callicos’ twenty-metre basement pool without stopping or tiring. I surrender to instinct, letting my body take over, using a punishing freestyle, gliding back and forth, length after length.

Just me and the water and the echoes.

Albert used to say I lose myself when I swim, but he was wrong. I find myself. My mind and senses sharpen, polarise. Beyond the rapid strokes and the soft rush of water, I hear every noise, sense every shift in air pressure, and smell every scent despite the pool’s heavy chlorination.

I also register every movement in the spotlit room of white marble opulence.

Albert’s brother-in-law, Coleman, watches me sometimes. Observing from the shadow of the bamboo screen that conceals the changing room door, he thinks I don’t see him. For a time, I wondered if Coleman might not be as straight as he likes people to believe.

I told Albert. He sighed the way he always did and told me the answer was more mundane. Coleman’s envious because he never learnt to swim, something I find not only ludicrous but sad. At forty-one, he is known to have a fortune stashed away in bills and bonds, antiques and properties, and obscene amounts of liquid funds inherited from his grandfather. I asked Albert why he didn’t employ an expert coach to give him private lessons. Coleman felt he’d left some things too late in life and regarded himself as an old pedigree, too stubborn to learn new tricks.

Albert had liked Coleman. I used to see them in one room or another, heads bowed solemnly together like cathedral statues, talking earnestly about various matters, a familiarity neither shared with other members of the household.

Nobody else uses the basement pool. Not anymore. On Sundays, I enjoy this second swim in the early afternoon, my way of avoiding the possibility of bumping into Albert’s siblings. When they kick me out, I will miss this room more than anything.

After hauling myself out of the deep end, I pick up my towel and dry off before a chaise longue of wine-red leather and gold paintwork. I always considered the seat an odd choice for a room otherwise empty of furniture. But I like to stand there and watch reflections shimmer across the walls and ceiling until the pool’s surface calms like the death throes of a dying animal.

As I pull on my tracksuit and slippers, intending to head back to my bedroom, I hear the familiar heavy clunk of the front door and the distinctive bellow of Edward Callico announcing his arrival. His presence can only mean one thing. A family conference. I assume they’ll assemble in the communal living area, so I take the back stairs up to the drawing room.

If you’re rich and famous enough to be invited into Callico House, the family’s London home—a three-storey Grade II listed townhouse of Portland stone set in the heart of Mayfair—you’ll be requested, upon your arrival, to wait in the drawing room to the left of their grand front entrance. Even in this day and age, the Callicos adhere to ludicrously strict and antiquated formalities. Waiting guests are seated in the antechamber until summoned. Reputedly modernised in the latter part of the twentieth century, the Persian-carpeted room is home to a horseshoe of leather sofas, bordered by oak bookcases housing scores of medical journals spanning the ages. Crammed into a small recess stands a tall wingback chair in ripped, age-worn black leather. No visitor willingly sits there. The seat is neither comfortable nor convenient, with a high risk of snagging clothing on the exposed edge.

But the chair holds a secret.

In the wall behind, there’s a small vent—possibly created to promote airflow, but I like to think its placement is more by design—allowing those seated to hear everything being said in the next room. According to Albert, the seat became his grandfather’s favourite during his retirement and remained so until his death. Albert talked fondly of the old man, about the minutes wasted searching the vast house for him, calling out his name, only to find him in this chair, long legs sticking out and crossed at the ankles, book in lap, snoring softly at the ceiling.

I have rarely used the room during my years of living here. Not until three months ago. Out of curiosity, I took to sitting cross-legged on the shabby seat to check my phone or read my well-thumbed paperback of Dickens’ complete works, which is how I discovered his grandfather’s secret.

“I don’t give a damn where Gabriel goes, Alice,” comes the cold, authoritative tone of Edward Callico, brother of Albert. Even though Edward talks in a lowered voice, I can make out every public-school-enunciated word. “I simply do not want to have to explain his presence. I want him gone from our lives.”

“Surely he's invited to the funeral,” says Alice. Edward’s wife is the only likeable member of the family. Alice labels herself BBC—British-born Chinese—and is more educated and better mannered than all the Callico siblings combined. And I include Albert in that assessment. When we first met, Albert was a man of remarkable intelligence but little patience and even less common sense or civility.

“Why should he be?” replies Edward. “He is not a member of this family. You know how I feel about him. His mere existence in our lives is an embarrassment.”

Where Albert followed in his father’s footsteps into the field of medicine—medical research, to be precise—Edward decided to break with tradition and specialise in contemporary business and computer technology, founding his own cybersecurity company. Most of his projects are tied up in government contracts. Nobody’s exactly sure what the work entails.

“Albert’s friends and colleagues will expect him to be there, darling,” says Alice.

“To the best of my knowledge, Albert’s colleagues have never met him. And the closest friends my brother had were in that minibus with him. I am thinking of our own relatives and connections. Imagine trying to explain Gabriel away to the Secretary of State for Health and Social Care. Or worse still, to Great Aunt Beatrix and Uncle Hector. As far as I am concerned, the sooner he is gone from this house and our lives, the better.”

“Does he have friends he can stay with?” asks Alice.

“Why are you asking us? You are the only one he ever speaks to. If you have no idea, why on earth would we? The point is, the house is legally mine now, and I want him out.”

“For pity’s sake, Ed. Can’t we wait a couple of weeks? At least give him time to find somewhere else—”

“My decision is final. It’s been over a week since the accident. He has had plenty of time to sort himself out.”

Poor Alice. Appealing to the Callico family’s sense of compassion is like signing to a visually impaired person. Alice is flawed in their eyes. She has a heart, morals and a conscience and is therefore deemed weak. In a moment of levity, Albert once told me she could never be a true Callico, not because of her Anglo-Asian heritage, but because she lacked a silver spoon in her mouth and an Oxbridge rowing paddle shoved up her arse.

“I’m sorry, Alice,” says Victoria, her deep voice almost masculine. “But I have to agree with my brother. Gabriel has full-time work at the charity now and therefore has independent means. If you go soft on his type, they will take advantage, as he did with poor Bertie. And then we’ll never be rid of him.”

Victoria’s wrong. I don’t want to keep living here, stifled by their old-world entitlement and being a party to their petty squabbles—not without Albert. He was the one who insisted I move into this mausoleum, partly to ease his conscience by giving me somewhere to live and partly to help ground him. The arrangement was never meant to be long-term. His family believes us to be lovers, and although I know Albert had feelings for me, he referred to himself humorously as gay-asexual. Aesthetically he preferred the naked male form, but he considered the act of sex messy, unhygienic and distasteful. On the rare occasion, he would watch me masturbate to porn. But he would not entertain the idea of oral sex, either giving or receiving. Although we shared a bed, I was little more than a personal companion.

“Would Albert have left him anything? In his will?” comes Alice’s voice again. I like Alice and usually love her tenacity, but right now, I wish she would shut up and back down.

“A piffling sum,” says Edward. “Nothing substantial. Mrs Hammond-Clyde has arranged to see him tomorrow at her Pimlico office. Hopefully, it will be enough to see him off once and for all.”

“And if he decides to challenge the will?” asks Alice. “Have any of you considered that possibility?”

“On what grounds?” snaps Edward. “Legally, he is nothing to this family.”

“He was your brother’s partner. They were together for years. Surely that counts for something in the eyes of the law? Even if it doesn’t, I can’t believe you’re willing to toss him out like a piece of unwanted furniture.”

Alice knows more about me than most, but that’s still very little. This wouldn’t be the first time I’d been homeless. When I met Albert, I had just turned seventeen and was working in a gay bar on Compton Street. Illegally, too, having skipped out of the foster system. Back then, I lived on the streets and survived harsh winters. None of them knows about my darker days and what I did to survive. If they did, if I gave them all the sordid details, I think even Alice might reevaluate her opinion of me.

“Don’t waste your breath, Ally.” Coleman’s American accent is usually a refreshing change from the clipped British voices. Today I notice a slight slur in his words. He’s more than likely been drinking, which of late appears to be the only way he can endure his marriage to Victoria. “If you hadn’t worked it out by now, the Callicos make the Borgias look like a bunch of amateurs. Don’t expect any mercy when your time comes.”

“Do shut up, Coleman,” says Victoria.

“Where is he now?” asks Edward.

“Probably in his bedroom,” says Alice. “He’s barely left since the news broke.”

Usually, she’d be right. Except for my early-morning swims, I’ve holed up in the bedroom since she called me with the news and, predicting my disbelief, forwarded me a ‘breaking news’ link from her phone. One of the house staff has been leaving a tray outside my door around mealtimes, usually with a mug of tea and a sandwich.

“Staring into that cursed phone, most likely,” says Victoria.

“Somebody needs to remind him about tomorrow,” says Edward. “I will not have him missing his appointment.”

“He knows about it. But I’ll send him a reminder,” says Alice, her tone resigned. “Are we finished?”

“Any update on Sylvie?” asks Coleman as I am about to rise and creep upstairs. I stop because I want to hear everything they have to say.

In the minibus crash that took Albert’s life, Doctor Sylvie Leblanc—Albert’s former colleague and a friend of Coleman’s from his university days—survived with broken limbs and, more worryingly, head injuries. I’ve met her a few times before, and we chatted briefly when she attended the dinner held at the house the night before their fateful journey. I always warmed to her, found her genuinely interested in me and my well-being. She was the only one to survive the crash.

“Still in a coma,” says Victoria. “But her condition is stable. Thankfully.”

“Thankfully,” echoes Coleman.

“You know what I mean. Compared to the alternative.”

Alice told me the police are pinning their hopes on her waking and being well enough to provide a firsthand account of what happened.

“Do we know when the other passenger—” begins Edward.

“Stephan. Dr Stephan Dytrovich,” says Alice.

“Yes. Do we know when his funeral will take place?”

“It already has. Dr Dytrovich was a Muslim,” says Victoria. “In keeping with tradition, his funeral took place quickly, the second day after he died. His family is observing a period of mourning, and I sent them a card and a sympathy basket of food on behalf of the Callico family. Fortunately for us, Fortnum’s deliver.”

“Yeah, fortunately for us,” Coleman mutters.

“We don’t have to show up for anything, then?” asks Edward, ignoring Coleman. “No ceremony?”

“We could go to their home and pay our respects directly—” begins Alice.

“No. We can offer our condolences at Albert’s funeral this Wednesday. If they choose to attend,” says Edward. “Do you want to give everyone an update, Alice? On the arrangements?”

Edward has always relied on Alice to handle the day-to-day minutiae of their lives. Although she rarely discusses anything with the family, they know she also juggles a successful career as a luxury goods distributor. In the fashion world, focused on Europe and Southeast Asia, she has a reputation as a powerhouse. I know she postponed an important European business trip to help with the funeral arrangements—not that any of the family would deign to thank her. Alice is one of those naturally organised persons who never drop the ball once given a project. The room falls quiet once she has covered everything, including answering a few questions.

“Do the cops have any updates?” asks Coleman. “About the cause of the crash?”

“Only what we already know,” comes Alice’s voice. “About the driver losing control of the minibus. That his concentration slipped for a second or—something they think more likely—that he fell asleep at the wheel. The police say the autopsy revealed relatively high levels of alcohol and traces of antidepressant medication in his bloodstream. I am more inclined to believe he’d still been drunk from the night before, although he seemed fine when I spoke to him in the kitchen before they set off, having tea and toast with Mrs Buckland.”

“Highly functioning alcoholics are masters at disguising their true drunken states,” says Victoria.

“Fuck you, dear,” says Coleman.

There is another pause, and once again, I wonder if they are done.

“Okay,” says Victoria eventually, her deep tone turning serious. “I’m going to put this out there, seeing as none of you has the balls to do so. Am I the only person in this room who believes that Gabriel had a hand in this?”

What the fuck?

“He was supposed to be travelling in the minibus that morning. Doesn’t the fact that he decided to change his plans at the last minute mean anything to any of you? How can we know he didn’t tamper with the vehicle?”

“For what reason—” begins Edward.

“You can’t be serious?” says Alice, the shock plain in her voice.

“Forgive my wife,” says Coleman. “She’s always had a flair for the dramatic.”

“Will you shut up, Coleman?” says Victoria. “I am simply echoing what we all feel. There is, and always has been, something distinctly unsavoury about Gabriel.”

“I’m sorry, but on this occasion, I have to disagree with you, Victoria,” says Edward. “If anyone had tampered with the vehicle, the police would have found out. And, yes, they did check. They found nothing suspicious. Moreover, all of us were asked about our whereabouts the morning of the accident, including Gabriel, who did not leave his bedroom until after Albert and his party had left, then only to use the pool.”

After the conversation trails off, I stand and stare off into space. I’ll make my final escape from this snake pit in the morning when I leave for the solicitor’s office. None of them needs to know. I’ll call Alice once I’m gone, but I am not wasting any more breath on the others. I can’t even muster the energy to be more upset by Victoria’s accusation, which only confirms that I need to distance myself from these toxic, entitled people.

In anticipation, I fire off a text message to ask if I can stay a few nights with an old friend, Josh, and his partner, Nishan. They already know the story of what happened. Thanks to social media, most of the country does. Hopefully, my old friend might let me bed down at theirs until I’ve found somewhere more permanent.

As I am texting, a message pops up on my phone, this one from my employer at the charity. Somewhat generously—probably because Albert was a patron—the board members have agreed to offer me another three weeks’ paid compassionate leave, which should give me ample time to find somewhere to live.

Albert may have pulled strings to help me get a job, open a bank account and obtain a passport to become visible in the eyes of the world.

But all I wish for right now is to have my old invisibility back.