Someone Else's Son (51 page)

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Authors: Sam Hayes

BOOK: Someone Else's Son
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When they got there, Carrie was in her dressing room. She refused to move, was unable to move, she told him, having sent everyone away. It was just the two of them.
‘They shouldn’t have let you do it,’ he said. ‘
I
shouldn’t have let you do it.’ He hugged her close. He felt the warmth of the bright mirror lights near his cheeks.
‘Yet how could I have done nothing?’ Carrie replied. Brody shook his head as he pressed hers against his shoulder. He understood entirely, he thought, as he remembered his futile attempts to help his son. Both of them had been ineffectual. He wondered if, added together, the sum of them would have been enough to save Max, to make them see clearly what was needed.
‘A youth has confessed,’ Carrie said bitterly. It was news to Brody. ‘But do you know what?’
Yes, he thought, I do.
‘It doesn’t change a thing. I don’t care if the boy goes to prison. I don’t care who did it.’ Carrie levered herself back, held him at arm’s length as if that would help him see the pain he knew would be written all over her face. ‘The worst of it is, things like this don’t happen to people like us, Brody. We’re never ready. It’s as if we have automatic immunity according to circumstance.’ She waited and they both thought. ‘But we don’t. It’s an illusion. We are, ultimately, all the same.’
When he left the studios, Fiona drove him to a motel. He refused to stay another night in his flat. He had once been convinced that living on the estate would make him feel part of a familiar world that had disappeared overnight; now he wasn’t sure he could cope with the crystal-clear hindsight it had given him. He vowed never to go back. It was no place for him. It had been no place for his son. Things like this, as Carrie had said, didn’t happen to them.
 
Leah found her alone in the dressing room, just a remnant of Brody’s visit lingering in the air. The studio had cleared and the detectives had gone. Leah crouched beside Carrie as she sat in the swivel chair staring at herself in the bright mirror.
‘It’s time to go, honey,’ she said.
Carrie limply held several pieces of lined paper. Fast-written scrawl filled both sides of the pages. There were round smudges blurring the ink at the edges – tears, Leah thought, when she saw the redness of Carrie’s eyes.
‘It’s Max’s essay,’ she said. ‘When I went to see his teacher, he gave it to me. I stuffed it in my bag. I couldn’t face reading it straight away.’
Leah took it. ‘
Romeo and Juliet
,’ she said, offering a small smile. ‘Brings back exam memories.’
‘Read it,’ Carrie said. She turned her head as if averting her eyes would dampen the pain. ‘Read the last paragraph.’
Are we any different then, today, in a world so far removed from that of Romeo or Juliet battling out their love? If a boy loves a girl, if he wants to be with her so badly that he has to hide half his life from her yet melts under only a moment of her gaze; if that same boy wants to scream out his love for her, yet gets crushed by the weight of others, is it right that his penance should be death? I say yes. I say that not even finality will get in his way. Not even fate will interfere if love, so raw and young and doomed from the start, is allowed to run its course. Our world is still made up of light and dark, of good and bad; us and them. Without this, we would live in a gloomy place. Without them, I wouldn’t have lived at all.
‘Oh, Carrie,’ Leah said. ‘Max was an amazing boy.’
That was all. No more words were necessary. The women embraced. They walked out of the television centre. Leah took Carrie home and left her alone, as she requested, to wait for the numbness to go; to wait, as she knew it one day would, for the light to come back.
JUNE 2009
Carrie was trying to concentrate but failing. Some days were better than others. Work had brought a little routine, normality, sanity, but today it was driving her mad. Those that had agreed to help with the centres weren’t following up. ‘That’s what happens when you beg,’ she muttered. The doorbell rang. It was Martha’s day off so she answered it herself.
‘Delivery for Max Quinell. Sign here please.’
‘Oh . . .’ Carrie said, catching her breath. She closed her eyes.
‘Wrong address or something?’ the courier said, holding out an electronic device for her to sign.
‘No, no. It’s the right address.’ She spoke quietly. Mail still came for him. Ironically, last week a lad from Denningham had called to see how he was getting on at his new school. The GP had sent out a card about a routine vaccination and junk mail flooded in from various publications.
‘I’ll just fetch it from the van then. There’s a lot.’
Carrie watched from the top step of her London home as the driver ran back and forth carrying large boxes. There were six in total and he left them in the hallway. Puzzled, Carrie closed the door and stared at them. They were all addressed to Max Quinell. One of six . . . two of six . . . three of six . . . was printed on each box.
‘One in a million,’ she whispered.
She fetched a letter opener and slit the tape. In the first box, she found a brand new Moses basket complete with bedding and stand. In the second there was a navy blue and grey fold-up pushchair. Then there was a travel cot and a car seat. By the time she’d delved into all the containers, Carrie had uncovered an entire nursery of baby equipment. She read the accompanying letter.
Dear Mr Quinell, Congratulations on your
Perfect Parent Magazine
win! We hope you and your family enjoy the quality baby equipment proudly supplied by ParentCare. With one hundred and thirty stores nationwide, ParentCare offers the best for you and your baby . . .
She didn’t read the rest; couldn’t focus on it. She went to the kitchen for a tissue. It would get easier by the tiniest bit each day, month, year, they’d said. Never easy, though. She knew that. She would call Dayna immediately and get her to come over. Show her what Max had won for her and the baby. Even after death, she was so proud of her son. She only wished she had taken the time to notice before it was too late.
 
Dennis sat in his car and watched the house. It wasn’t the usual surveillance operation. Well, he thought, unwrapping the Danish pastry he’d bought from the shop round the corner, it was – just way more important. He was impressed that it was detached and clearly well cared for, even though it was a million miles from his shabby jammed-in terrace. There was a new model Ford in the drive and another car, too. He’d not been expecting that. Summer flowers cast a rainbow of colour either side of the front door, dangling lazily from baskets in a spectacular array which represented, he couldn’t help thinking, familial contentment. It was in stark contrast to his usual operations.
‘Bitch,’ he said. He sipped from his takeaway cup of coffee and burnt his top lip.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Den, do we have to sit here much longer?’ Jess had opted for a bottle of water and an apple. Not much of a breakfast, he’d told her as she eyed his sticky Danish.
‘You’re free to go at any time,’ he replied through a mouthful.
‘And how am I supposed to get back to the station?’ She crunched her apple and wound down the window. Even when they’d arrived at 7 a.m., they knew it was going to be a hot one. An hour and a half later and the hazy clouds had burnt off. The sky was now brilliant blue. Jess stuck her elbow out of the window and dropped her head on to her shoulder. ‘Can’t you just phone her or something?’
‘I need to see for myself,’ he said flatly. ‘You, my dear, just happened to be in the car.’
‘Great,’ Jess began but quickly stopped when Dennis leant forward and grabbed the wheel. He held the Danish between his teeth. ‘Her?’ she asked.
There was a nod. He couldn’t speak, not because of the mouthful but rather from shock. A teenage girl had come out of the house. She stopped on the driveway, looked puzzled for a moment before turning back towards the door. Someone opened it in anticipation – a man, Dennis noted – and handed her a small bag from within the house. The girl laughed, her white teeth flashing a signal of both her own forgetfulness and gratitude at the
man
who had aided her.
Dennis let out a growl.
The man beckoned her back and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Then that smile again, a swish of her long blond hair, the bag slung over her shoulder, and a skip down the drive.
Dennis started the engine.
‘She’s pretty,’ Jess said. ‘Can we go now?’
‘Of course not,’ Dennis said, chucking the pastry out of the window. He put the car into first gear and crept forward.
‘So now we’re stalking a teenage girl. You’ll get us arrested, you idiot.’
Dennis saw the roll of her eyes, the exasperated look on her face that, really, they should be back at the station following up on last week’s stabbing. The nightclub owner wasn’t entirely guilt-free, he reckoned, when it came to security. None of the gang would talk. All he knew was that it was sport for them, hanging outside the club, waiting for kick-out time. A bit of gay-bashing was entertainment. This time it had gone too far.
‘This is ridiculous,’ Dennis suddenly said. He bumped the car up on to the kerb, yanked on the handbrake and got out.
‘Glad you agree.’
‘Wait here,’ he ordered, leaving Jess sitting alone, watching as he walked briskly across the deserted road.
The girl was making ground, perhaps late for school. Her navy skirt and maroon blazer were impeccably turned out and her hair gleamed in the sun. Her purposeful stride spoke of a keenness to get where she was going, to open her books, to learn, to embrace, to socialise between lessons and be the most popular pupil. She certainly looked it, he thought. Suddenly, he was reminded of that girl Dayna, of Max, of their struggle through a world that refused to accept them. Not so his daughter, he thought gratefully, witnessing her as their antithesis. His heart warmed a little, knowing that she was happy, that she was being taken care of, that, even if it wasn’t him kissing her goodbye at the door, at least someone who cared for her was.
‘Estelle,’ he called out. ‘Estelle,’ he shouted again when she didn’t turn. At the sound of his voice, her pace increased. Only when she reached the bus stop round the corner was she forced to stop and wait. She hung her head.
Dennis was panting when he drew up next to her. ‘OK, OK,’ he said, laughing. ‘You win. I’m an old . . .’
Estelle turned to face him. She squinted from the bright sun. Her eyes were full of tears.
‘Estelle, honey, what’s wrong?’
‘Dad?’ she whispered. ‘What are you doing here?’ There was an unresolved laugh, a sniff, a tissue pulled from a pocket and a frown.
‘I . . . I came to see you. What’s wrong? Why are you upset?’
‘It’s nothing,’ she replied quickly. ‘Mum’ll go mad if she knows you’ve been following me. It’s not visiting day.’
‘It’s never visiting day,’ Dennis retorted. He didn’t care about that. He wanted to know why his daughter – bright and cheery not two minutes ago – was now crying. ‘What’s upset you, sweetie?’ His mind raced with possibilities – she was being bullied, threatened, teased by other kids. Or maybe a teacher was picking on her. The horrible possibilities were endless. Dennis reached out, his arms aching with unfamiliarity. His hands settled on her shoulders. She allowed him to draw her close. ‘I won’t let them hurt you,’ he said into her soft hair.
‘What are you on about, Dad?’ Estelle drew away. She sniffed and laughed.
‘If you have problems at school. You
must
tell me. I can help.’
‘I don’t. I love school.’
‘Then what’s bothering you, honey?’ Dennis didn’t understand. He tipped up her chin with his finger. Her blue eyes were so full of sadness that he felt weak from being drawn into them. Panic swept through him. She was lying.
In her young face, he saw a flash of Dayna, of the misery she bore with Max until it became a way of life – or death. Warren Lane was still in custody, his court case due in another month. On further analysis, the knife had revealed three sets of prints – one Max’s, one inconclusive, and one most definitely Lane’s. The weapon had been sent off for a new type of testing. The CPS was finally convinced.
‘I miss you, Dad,’ she said. ‘I’ve learnt to block out that you’re too busy to see me and you and Mum always argue. But when I heard your voice just now, it made me . . . sad.’
‘Oh, Estelle,’ Dennis said. He was so relieved he could hardly speak. ‘I’m so sorry, honey. So very sorry. How can I make it up to you?’
‘Easy,’ Estelle said, smiling again. It warmed Dennis’s heart. ‘Be in my life.’
 
Fiona was surrounded by boxes while Brody worked at his makeshift desk. She was being orderly and capable when all he seemed to want to do was walk through the acres of park opposite his new house or immerse himself in work. She knew he didn’t want to think too much. She also knew that everything still hurt – from cleaning his teeth to returning to lecturing.
Why, he’d said to her, when my world is as black as the night, do I see my son everywhere?
‘I can have this unpacking done in a day if only you’d tell me where you want things to go.’ His stuff had been in storage for several months. Brody had insisted on staying in a motel rather than take Fiona up on her offer of a room. She wasn’t going to argue with him; that came later when she helped him choose a house.
‘I would like quite the opposite,’ Brody said. He shut the lid of his laptop and turned to her. ‘Please go ahead and put everything away for me. Then I can have fun finding it.’
‘Fun?’ Fiona said. She stacked plates in a kitchen cupboard. The whole place was clean and modern and functional; if Brody knew just how functional, she’d thought when they’d viewed properties, then he’d have probably gone back to his old flat. ‘It’s quirky,’ she’d told him. ‘It has character and is perfectly placed for the university and only five minutes’ drive from me.’ She’d especially liked that.

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