Someone Else's Son (4 page)

‘Don’t even
go
there,’ Carrie said when he’d left the room. She shoved Leah off her back. She dropped her head on to the table, suddenly hit square on the jaw by the huge empty space that was her love life.

She groaned. ‘Things must be really bad.
Really
bad.’

‘Oh?’ Leah pulled a face and waited for her friend to continue.

Carrie lifted her head. ‘Part of me actually considered accepting his offer.’

 

Max Quinell stared up at the dismal block of flats. The dingy concrete merged with the sky. He liked it; liked the red, black and green slashes of graffiti shouting out through the murky weather. He liked the fact that there weren’t any trees or lawns or neatly clipped bushes outside stupid front doors. He liked the sense of danger that clawed around his body as he walked deeper into the tenement.

He pulled up his hood and bent his head parallel to the pavement. The box was tucked under his right arm, a little crushed but he knew the contents were fine. He shoved the other hand deep inside his pocket, fingering his fags, his lighter, the cash his mother paid directly into his bank account for the taxis he never took. The key was there. His phone was in his back pocket, probably ripe for nicking given the groups of youth that hung around here.

But what he didn’t feel in his pocket, and sorely wanted to, was a knife. The compact, silky-smooth handle wrapped around its hidden blade; the effortless protection whipped out in an instant at the first sign of trouble; the look on their faces when it glinted; the power, the shock, the safety. Everyone else had one, didn’t they?

But he just couldn’t bring himself to get one. No one would sell him one without ID and, while he knew he could probably buy one off some of the kids who hung around his dad’s estate, he wasn’t brave enough to do it. Would owning one, he wondered, invite more trouble? He didn’t want that. Then again, he thought, taking the stairs two at a time, not having one could be asking for trouble too.

Max banged on the door. He waited a while. His father might be . . . doing something. With someone. That woman, Fiona. When there was no reply, he let himself in.

‘Jesus fucking—’ he said, retching. The stink was overpowering. He covered his nose with his sleeve and went round the tiny flat opening curtains and windows. He’d not visited in a while. No one had, he reckoned. So much for his dad’s stupid assistant.

He put the box down on the table in the living room. ‘Dad?’ he called out. He wandered around, kicking old cans and empty food cartons, tripping on strewn clothes and shoes, picking up CDs and gadgets that he’d given him over the months. He eyed the box he’d brought with him today, wondering if his father would even want it.

Sighing, Max began in the tiny kitchen. It was the worst. He pulled off his hoodie and draped it over the back of a chair. He lifted the stack of congealed plates and takeaway cartons from the sink, sorting what could be thrown away.

He’s managed to take the rubbish out at least, Max thought, noting the empty bin and fresh liner. He pushed his earphones into place and turned up his music full volume. Somehow, it made the stench seem less. Then he set to washing up, plunging his skinny arms into soapy water that soon became greasy and brown. He emptied the sink, dried up what he had washed so far, then began again. After that, he wiped down all the surfaces, spraying everything with some cleaner he’d found under all the junk in the cupboard. It was that easy, he thought, unable to understand why the place was such a . . .

‘Hey! Jesus, you fucking scared the sh—’

‘Doesn’t your mother teach you any manners at all?’ Brody Quinell released his son, but received a face full of suds for creeping up on him and grabbing him round the chest. ‘If you will deafen yourself with those stupid things then expect to be pounced upon.’ His father roared with laughter, apparently in a good mood.

Max pulled out his earphones and heard the tss-tss of the music in his palms. He turned off his iPod and stuffed the thin wires in his pocket. He wiped his hands down the front of his jeans and followed his father into the living room. ‘I haven’t tidied in here yet.’

‘Good,’ Brody replied. ‘Then I won’t be losing anything.’

‘You can’t leave it like this. Doesn’t that woman of yours do anything?’

‘Firstly, she’s not my woman. Secondly, I see no logical reason for you to refer to her in that tone and, thirdly, you’re a teenage boy. You should understand and embrace the disorder. Don’t tell me your mother makes you keep your room tidy?’ Brody lit a cigarette.

Max wondered if it would matter if he smoked too. Would his dad even know?

‘Help yourself.’ Question answered. Brody threw the packet at him, aimed perfectly in his direction. How did he do that? ‘And don’t pretend to me you don’t smoke, either.’ He shook his head and went round closing all the windows. ‘I often smell it on you. Bloody cold today,’ he complained.

For the next ten minutes father and son sat in silence. Max watched as his father’s cheeks hollowed with every pleasurable suck on the cigarette. There was something about the way his lips curled round the slim stick, the way his large hands ridged with veins deftly bent around it, holding it at his mouth. Max copied his dad. He stared at his own hands, smaller, a bit paler, smoother. He switched his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger but dropped it on to the dirty rug.

‘Don’t burn the place down,’ Brody said.

Max laughed, picking it up and flicking his ash. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘I brought you a present.’ He touched the box against his dad’s hand. Brody took it and shook it. He felt the size of it while holding the cigarette between his lips.

‘Not another blood-pressure monitor, I hope.’

For a second, Max looked crestfallen. ‘It’s an electric whisk. You can beat eggs with it. Or froth milk.’

‘Why the fuck would I want to do that?’

‘Omelette? Cappuccino? I dunno.’ Max felt like taking it back. But his mother wouldn’t want it either. ‘I’ll put it in the kitchen cupboard. Get Fiona to show you how it works. It could be useful.’ He tried to refer to her with less resentment. Thing was, while she was in his father’s life, there was no chance of a reconciliation between his parents. A crazy idea, he knew, and although he didn’t want to dislike Fiona, he simply couldn’t help it. She was the one who had replaced his mother when things had gone bad.

‘No space in the kitchen ’cos of all the other shit you gave me. No more kitchen gadgets, son, OK? Don’t mind the mobile phones or the music, and the weekend break was a nice touch. But no more electric griddles or bread-makers.’

Max squinted. They’d always been honest with each other. ‘Sure, Dad.’ He stood. ‘I’ll get on with the washing-up.’

‘Fuck you will,’ Brody said, rearing up and grabbing his son with a lucky lunge at his arm. ‘We’re going out to celebrate.’

‘Celebrate what?’

‘That my little protégé cracked something that simply shouldn’t have been cracked by a kid. And you, son, have a new woman.’

Max stopped dead. ‘New woman?’

‘Don’t deny it, Maxie. You smell like a duty-free shop. Calvin Klein? Armani?’

‘Beckham.’ Max pulled on his hoodie.

Brody grinned, white teeth flashing, proud as hell. ‘She hot? Got big—’

‘No, Dad. You’re wrong.’ Max sighed heavily. He threw his father’s leather coat at him, gathered the bunch of house keys from the window sill, quite unable to explain why he was suddenly thinking of that weird girl at his new school again.

Carrie Kent had worked in television for only three years – first as a news anchor woman and then as assistant presenter on
Crime Hits
, a late-night satellite production tailing the Met as they made live arrests – when
Reality Check
first went to air. That’s how she’d met Dennis. With a few years’ experience and a desire to succeed, she pitched her show idea to the station and it was snapped up, leaving the senior commissioners wondering why they hadn’t thought of it before.

Carrie, they said, would become a household name. They would make her a star. She would be the most talked about female presenter with the highest rated daytime show ever. And it was true. It happened, and quickly. Never once did she consider that the price she paid for fame would far outweigh her astronomical earnings.

Reality Check
first aired on 3 September 1999. It was initially commissioned for a twelve-week run but was so popular, it hadn’t missed a slot since it began. When Carrie took a holiday or was ill, re-runs were aired to sate the public’s hunger for real-life drama, misery and crime.

‘We just hit the formula,’ Leah boasted as Carrie’s best friend and producer. Having pursued a career in journalism, radio production and then children’s television, Leah was Carrie’s right-hand woman. The women were inseparable both in and out of the studio. ‘It’s all about the presentation and style. That’s down to Carrie’s talent. Without her, we wouldn’t have a show, we’d have a news bulletin.’

Every women’s magazine in the country had run interviews with Carrie Kent over the years. Each time they’d attempted an insight into her private life, the secret side of Carrie Kent, and each time they’d failed. Her divorce from Brody was covered with double-page splashes of speculation, but she refused to be drawn into the gossip that her ex’s blindness was a factor in their break-up. Carrie’s lack of comment fuelled further stories about a dysfunctional private life – how she’d shipped her young son off to boarding school because she couldn’t cope.

‘That’s what happens,’ she was told by an older presenter at the station, ‘when you get so famous. There comes a time when simple, honest celebrity is no longer enough. They have to know about that line of coke or that you once paid for sex. They want to bring you down, Carrie. Always remember that.’

Those words stuck with her, became her mantra, and not a day went by when Carrie didn’t have cause to believe it.
They want to bring me down
.

Four years into the show and with enough cash in the bank to buy her own television station – there had been spin-offs, too, plus her ever growing fee – Carrie decided, no,
needed
, to get away.

‘It’s only for a few days. Just me. Alone.’ She didn’t give Leah the chance to argue. She hung up and switched off her mobile from Friday evening until Wednesday lunchtime. She had no idea what the following week’s show would hold and neither, at that time, did she care. She could hazard a guess: pregnant teen, battered wife, unfaithful husband, missing person, drug addict, alcoholic spouse, shoplifter or car thief. There was no end to human depravity. Rehearsal not needed. She’d deal with the brief on her return.

Carrie spent an hour trawling the internet for somewhere to go. This time she didn’t want five-star luxury and she didn’t want to stay anywhere she’d be recognised. Airports were out of the question. She just wanted to be normal, to get excited about being alone, to take long, deep breaths of fresh air that weren’t filled with stress, crime or rumour.

That rules out most of the United Kingdom, she thought, flitting from one website to another, but she persevered. She liked the look of a log cabin on the far side of Loch Lomond. It was vacant. She emailed the owner and booked under a false name, promising cash on arrival.

The drive was exhilarating. She’d requested that a hire car be delivered – her personal plate was too recognisable – and the Jeep was perfect. She sped non-stop up the motorway, having stocked up on water and food before she left. After Glasgow, she stopped in a lay-by, ate and folded back the soft top of the vehicle. It was a starry night, warm even for Scotland, and she liked the moonlight on her shoulders, the moths swimming through the high beam as she wound round the edge of the loch to her cabin.

When she pulled through the gates of the park, everything was silent. Eight cabins sat nestled in private wooded areas at the loch side of a large estate. She had booked cabin number six. Driving along the track, the headlights barely picking out the worn-down earth that denoted the way between the trees, Carrie inhaled deeply. The air was brimming with oxygen, the scent of nature and peace. She was conscious of the rattling diesel engine disturbing the quiet, although there didn’t seem to be any signs of life from the other cabins she’d spotted.

‘Three . . .’ she said to herself, catching sight of a plaque nailed to a tree, but then the next number she saw was five at the edge of a clearing. Beyond, she saw a simple rectangle of logs and shingle silhouetted against the moonlit water. The thrill of being totally alone for a few days was comforting yet dangerous. Something had taken her beyond a point she never usually reached. If she hadn’t escaped, she believed that her mind and body might have imploded. Leah hadn’t liked it, and her agent had kicked up at the cancellations he’d have to make, but they’d manage without her, they finally said, knowing arguing was futile.

‘At last,’ Carrie said to herself. She steered round behind a tree, heading towards cabin number six. ‘It’s cute.’ She switched off the engine. She thought of leaving the headlights on to guide her to the door but decided that she’d prefer to walk through the darkness. It was easy, navigating her way through the trees with the moonlight reflecting off the loch. By the look of it, she’d have a first-class view of the scenery from the veranda that spanned the end of the cabin. Her heart skittled with excitement. Five whole days of solitude. She would do absolutely nothing except walk, think, sleep and read.

She tripped on the step up to the door.

‘Shit.’ Her voice ricocheted through the woods and skimmed over the water. It was incongruent in the serene place. Something rustled in the undergrowth behind her – a fox, a badger? Because the booking was at such short notice, the owner had emailed to say that a key would be left under a pot of flowers beside the door. There was no pot.

‘Damn,’ she said. Again, her expletive cut through the still night. Carrie squinted through the darkness and thought she saw a pot further round on the veranda. The wood beneath her feet creaked as she felt her way along the cabin’s side.