Someone Else's Son (47 page)

 

And what of his father? What if he’d not gone blind? Max thought. He used to believe that it was his fault, that if he’d not messed about or cried at bedtime or kicked up when he’d had to go back to school, or if he’d even eaten up properly or tidied his room when asked then his father wouldn’t have lost his sight.

Max sucked on his cigarette in the shed, his elbows resting on his bony knees as he pulled them in to his chest. The smoke drew up slowly in front of his eyes. Was that what it was like at the start? he thought. Misty patches of wondering if you’d seen that right, perhaps do a double take or stare a bit longer. He remembered his dad muttering about his eyes, about how he was going to need glasses and that he was turning into a typical old professor. He remembered his mother’s shrill laugh, her arms slinging round his neck, telling his father that nonsense, glasses were sexy and he would never in a million years be typical. Then again, in those days, she was just as likely to ignore his father or snap his head off for no reason. His dad never went to the optician.

‘Crazy adults,’ Max said, puffing out smoke and suddenly feeling self-conscious for talking to himself. ‘Fuck off, Thing,’ he yelled at the shed roof. ‘You’re not real. You don’t control me.’ The very silence that followed, the disturbing and unnatural quiet in his head was reply enough. It was as desolate as the blackness his father woke to each day and as commanding as his mother on the television. There was no escaping it. He
was
controlled by the Thing and, as he sat alone, pining for Dayna, aching for his mother, feeling so sad for his father, he realised that all along the Thing had been him. He saw quite clearly, too, that he was the never-ending pip, the apple tree that soon died when he forgot to water it in its tiny yoghurt pot. But now even that line of infinity was over because Dayna was getting an abortion.

For hours, he sobbed for his unborn baby.

It nearly killed Carrie when she saw Max. He was larger than life, giving her that half-smile that said,
Oh God, Mum, leave me alone
, while also screaming out that he desperately needed her. Except he hadn’t been able to have her because, until now, she’d not noticed the way his mouth could be so expressive, his eyes so imploring and his skin belie his age. He’d always behaved much older, so mature – was that Denningham? she wondered – not to mention that tough act he put on; necessary, she now realised, to survive. He skulked home from his new school – she’d never got used to seeing his pack dumped in the hallway mid-term – and raided her refrigerator or put on his music so loud she couldn’t think in her study. He left his stuff lying about the house and the whole of upstairs smelt of cheap body spray in the mornings. He hardly ever spoke and when he did, it was defensive and confrontational at the same time. Even a chat about school lunch could end in war.

‘Oh God, I miss you so much, Max.’ Carrie dropped to her knees in front of the massive image of her son that formed the backdrop of the
Reality Check
set. It crippled her to think that everything was normal this time last week. Then she’d received the call every mother dreads.

‘Honey, don’t.’ Leah was beside her while the sound crew ran checks. Banks of lighting shone and dimmed around them as the engineers worked, just as they did every Friday morning, as if this was just any show.

‘Then why put him up there?’ Carrie was crying. Hopeless, she knew, with less than an hour until airtime, but she couldn’t help it. Make-up could fix her face before they went live.

‘We want the viewers to see him, honey. Someone might recognise his face, remember something useful. This show’s not just about getting the word out there to stop this crazy violence. It’s about catching his killer. You know how Dennis and his team work. They need us as much as we need them for the show.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Carrie straightened. She blew her nose. ‘I’m being ridiculous.’

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

‘If I don’t, I’ll never live with myself. I have to do everything I can to help.’

Leah nodded. ‘Let’s get you back to make-up. We’re going to need you ready on set for sound checks.’

Slowly, Carrie walked down the corridors. Regular crew and runners and assistants and other members of the production team rushed past her. ‘Hey, Carrie,’ someone called out, until Leah waved them off with her arm. In the dressing room, she sat as if in a different world to everyone else. It was a surreal place and she had been in it for exactly a week. Glimpses of reality leaked around her, but as for being a part of it, she knew that would never happen again.

‘I’m one of
them
now, aren’t I?’ she said into the mirror.

‘Pardon?’ the make-up girl said. Leah had been called off to the production room.

‘Me. I’ve become everything I feared.’

The girl smiled nervously and swept a huge brush across Carrie’s cheeks. She was only young, not much older than Max, Carrie supposed. ‘I heard what happened,’ the girl said. ‘It’s awful. My brother got threatened outside a club just before Christmas. He says he always sees people with knives. They do it, like, to be tough or something.’

But Carrie wasn’t listening. She’d closed her eyes and allowed the faces of all the bereft mothers that she’d had on the show over the years to stampede through her mind. She apologised to each and every one of them.

Dayna took the bus. It would stop right outside the hospital. On impulse, as she was bumping along, rubbing shoulders with the old man to her left, not particularly listening to the other passengers – the squawks of kids, the chatter of women, the tinny sound of headphones – and trying to ignore the screams of fire in her belly, she texted Max.

Having abortion today
.

She just wanted him to know. She wanted his heart to thump as madly as hers was doing; she wanted him to text back and beg her not to do it. She would ignore him, tell him when it was done, that it was too late, that he should have done something sooner, that she couldn’t help all those things that they said about him and God, oh God, none of it was her fault.

She felt sick. Was it the baby? The bus ride? Or remembering how they beat her and pushed her face in the urinals until she told them all the details. None of what she’d heard going around the school was what she’d actually said. Despite all the bruises, the filth they made her eat, the stuff that got nicked, she never once meant to betray Max. She told them she loved him. Shame she hadn’t told Max.

Then they’d spread the rumours. They created their own version of events; chucked around pieces of her time with Max as if they were trash. In her head, she ran about trying to collect them up, trying to tell Max what had really happened, but the looks he’d given her had nearly killed her. He believed them. He really believed that she’d said all those vile things. Was it, she thought, because he thought them himself?

The bus slowed and stopped. The infirmary loomed to the left, casting a shadow not of health and recovery, but of morbidity and finality. But she was bound to feel that way, she convinced herself, stepping off the bus. She placed a hand on her stomach, wondering if it knew or sensed her fear. She marched up to reception and handed across the form she’d been given at the clinic a couple of weeks ago. They’d called her yesterday, telling her there’d been a cancellation, telling her not to eat or drink anything after midnight. She sat on the loo for hours, thinking about it.

‘Go to the third floor, love. Head for the gynae ward.’

Dayna seemed to float towards the lift. She got out at the correct floor, suddenly dazed by all the signs and porters and the whiteness of it all as if it had snowed in her head.

‘Excuse me,’ she said quietly. ‘Do you know where . . .’
Do you know where the abortions are?
The words screamed through her mind. ‘Where the gyn . . . the gyna . . .’ She couldn’t say it.

‘Down that way. First corridor to the right.’ The porter wheeled off a young woman in a chair. Her face was ghostly white, her fingers picking together nervously in her lap, her belly big as a hill.

She handed in her slip of paper. The nurse bit her lip and glanced at Dayna. ‘On your own?’ she said.

Always, Dayna wanted to say. She nodded timidly.

‘Someone picking you up later?’

Dayna knew where this was going. ‘Yeah, my mum,’ she lied. The nurse relaxed and tapped away at a computer.

‘Right, let’s get you a bed and begin admission.’ She took Dayna through the ward, past rows of women, many of whom were clearly heavily pregnant. After they’d passed along several more corridors, after the warmth and visitors and happy chatter had diminished, they went through a key-coded door and into a series of rooms that were filled with young girls and posters on the wall.
Stay smart, Stay safe . . . Rape, it’s not your fault . . . Don’t get caught naked
. . . There were images of condoms and packets of pills and other stuff that Dayna didn’t recognise. She blinked slowly and passed it all by, following the nurse to her fate.

Fifteen minutes later, Dayna was wearing a hospital gown and was lying in bed telling the nurse her medical history. She was kind to Dayna and wrote everything down. She asked if she had a boyfriend. Dayna shook her head. Then the nurse said the anaesthetist would come to see her soon.

Four hours later, hungry and thirsty, Dayna was watching the ceiling lights, the ventilation shafts and the hospital signs whizz past above her as the porters wheeled her down to theatre. They chatted about their kids and wives over her head. She had a plastic bracelet on. She fiddled with it. She had a needle and tube in the back of her hand. It hurt. They’d made her wear paper pants.

It would all be over soon.

Max got the second text at twenty past five.

He’d imagined her asleep in the operating theatre, her legs up in those metal stirrups, the surgeon asking for instruments then chatting to the nurse about the restaurant he’d been to last night. The machines would be beeping steadily; everything normal. Occasionally the nurse would check Dayna’s face, hidden behind the screen. The surgeon would do his work, hardly having to concentrate, he’d done it so many times before. Perhaps there’d be a comment or two, about the waste, the sadness, the circumstances. Their baby would be taken out, put in a metal dish. Then what?

Dayna would be cleaned and taken to recovery, given a cup of tea. The nurse would be kind but maybe distant. Had her sister been trying for a baby for years? Had she miscarried herself? Usually a day case, Max had read on the internet. In and out. She was on the bus home, she’d said, when she texted him.

It’s all over
.

‘Good morning and welcome to this week’s
Reality Check
.’ Her cheeks glowed. She stood tall and faced the camera. She took a breath and spoke slowly. ‘I’m Carrie Kent and today we’re broadcasting to you under rather unusual circumstances.’ Another breath. ‘It’s no secret that my family was struck by life-stopping tragedy last week.’ She swallowed. ‘My dear son, Max, was stabbed to death in a cold-blooded attack in his own school grounds.’ Carrie took a step backwards. Gone was her usual striding style, her flamboyant arm and head gestures. Her face was deadpan.

‘Presenting this show today is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, but this morning I want to achieve two things. Firstly, someone out there knows something.’ Carrie leant forward. The camera zoomed. ‘Whether your son came home agitated or covered in blood or your boyfriend was bragging about what he did or mentioned something he witnessed, then I implore you to call in.You know something. You can help. The hotline numbers direct to members of the Met will be on your screens throughout the show. The information you give will be confidential and you don’t have to leave your name.’

Carrie turned, a little of her stage presence resurfacing, and she walked towards the two chairs that were set at angles to each other beneath the huge photograph of Max.

‘Secondly, I want to get the message out there to all the ignorant, misguided youths who think that carrying knives is a civilised way to act, that it simply isn’t.’ For three seconds, she said nothing. She glared at the camera and saw it not as a window to fame but rather an opening into the lives of the millions who watched her. It was her chance to help, to really do something good.

‘Carrying a knife is not protection as some of you believe. It doesn’t make you invincible or brave or manly. Neither does it make others look up to you.’ The sob Carrie let out wasn’t to gain sympathy. She couldn’t help it. For now, she kept back the tears. She had to. The show had only just begun. ‘Carrying a knife or any kind of weapon confirms you as the low-life scum you really are. It’s a badge of cowardice and a licence to live with nothing but fear. If I can get just one person to do the right thing and call our team today, if I can make one person put down a knife, then standing here, my legs still shaking from grief, I will perhaps be able to carry on. My son’s death won’t have been totally in vain. As things are, I am finding it very hard. Thank you.’

Carrie turned and walked slowly to the rear of the studio, unable to get the thought of Max stealing her kitchen knife from her mind. She knew she was still being filmed but also that the remainder of the titles were scrolling on screen. There was usually a catchy theme jingle, but today there would be silence. The studio audience gave a tight, subdued clap as they had been instructed and, once quiet, Carrie faced the camera to commence.

‘I want to introduce you to someone who’s been rather brave throughout the last week. Until a few days ago, I didn’t even know of her existence. She was Max’s girlfriend and, teenagers being the private creatures they are, I knew nothing about her. Sadly for her, this young lady bore witness to my son’s fatal stabbing. Sadly again, she is unable to identify the perpetrators. By getting her on the show, by listening to her story, I’m hoping that you, our viewers, will help. After ten years of doing this show, after ten years of interfering in other people’s lives, it’s time for you to interfere in mine.