The Son-In-Law (5 page)

Akash began to eat cereal with one hand while opening his post with the other. Joseph had heard him leaping blithely out of bed and heading off to work at three that morning, and gathered he’d had spent the next six hours directing an army of employees while wielding a vacuum cleaner himself. Every movement was effective; his clothes were ironed, black hair immaculate. He was on the short side—five foot six, he’d once told Joseph—but indefatigable.

‘Daylight robbery,’ he complained. ‘Look at this—electricity companies take the piss, don’t they? Best thing about being inside is never having to open a bill. So what did your probation fella say on the phone?’

Joseph shrugged. ‘Warned me to stay away from their house. Wants me to go through the
proper channels
when it comes to seeing the children. I told him I
am
going through the proper channels, painfully bloody slow channels, but I had to check they’re okay in the meantime.’

‘Which involved hanging around a kids’ playground like a nonce.’

‘I wanted to catch a glimpse, that’s all. Just a glimpse.’ Joseph shook his head. ‘I’ve waited so long, and it was like a miracle. Theo I’d know anywhere, with his hair sticking straight up like he’s had a fright. Genius with a football. Well, I taught him to kick a ball before he could walk. He had a little guy with him, a little blondie, had to be Ben. My boys, Akash. My
boys
!’

‘Your in-laws will be bricking it. They probably think you’re planning to abduct the kids.’

Which might be true, thought Joseph as he scanned the jobs column in a newspaper. Young Akash had a knack for getting straight to the nub of things. His acuity had taken him to the top of his profession—handling stolen cars—at the tender age of twenty-one. He came from a family of high-flying doctors, and nobody had ever doubted that he would follow suit. At first he obliged, and was a star pupil at his grammar school; a prefect and cricketing legend. Then he fell out with his father, fell in with a new crowd and rebelled spectacularly. He had a few run-ins with the police and his offending escalated until he was the mastermind of a team of car ringers. Then a tip-off landed him in Armley.

‘What are they like?’ Akash asked now. ‘Your in-laws?’

‘Zoe had ’em wrapped around her little finger—can’t blame them, I was wrapped around it too. Hannah’s a scary intellectual, lectures in physics at the university. What she doesn’t know about quantum theory isn’t worth knowing. She never liked me. We got off on the wrong foot.’

‘Why?’

‘Nobody could be good enough for her daughter, but I must have been her worst nightmare—a butcher’s son from Tyneside. I was young, I was nervous, I was way out of my depth, and I had a bit of a chip on my shoulder. She got my hackles up.’

Akash raised an eyebrow. ‘You were rude to her, weren’t you, Scottie?’

‘Mm.’ Joseph looked embarrassed at the memory. ‘It was all unspoken; she was polite on the surface. She asked me about myself, but in this pained sort of way. It brought out the worst in me. I acted a bit yobbish, talked big about a fight I’d been in. I still had a massive shiner of a black eye, so I must have looked like a low-life.’

Akash smacked his palm across his forehead. ‘Doh!’

‘Freddie did his best, though.’ Joseph smiled. ‘He’d just directed some play in Leeds. It was a sell-out. Hannah and Zoe were gloating over the reviews, but old Freddie didn’t give a toss. He spent the afternoon digging away in his garden, covered in mud, waffling on about insects.’

‘Insects.’

Joseph chuckled into his coffee. ‘He fixed me with his glittering eye like the ancient bloody mariner and spent ten minutes going on about how a teaspoon of soil contains millions of organisms.’

‘That’s true!’ exclaimed Akash delightedly. ‘Teeming with ’em.’

‘Well . . .’ Joseph closed the paper. ‘Unless I want to be a pole dancer, there’s nothing for me in here.’

‘You’re pretty enough to be a pole dancer.’ Akash’s mobile phone rang. ‘Bit of lippy, you’ll be a real pouting beauty. You do pout a lot. Hello? . . . Yes, mate. Yes, not a problem, I can sort that out . . .’

While his friend talked, Joseph tried to consider his future and got nowhere. His mind seemed to be locked on a set of rails that inexorably led back to Zoe. Her eyes haunted him, bright with wild energy even in death. From her his thoughts led to the children; and when he was thinking about them, nothing else seemed relevant.

Akash flipped his phone shut. ‘So what are you planning to live on?’ he asked bluntly.

‘I’ve got a bit of cash in the bank. I’ll be okay for a while.’

‘Did you own a house before you got sent away?’

‘Signed everything over to the in-laws, including responsibility for my children. I didn’t have any choice, nobody else volunteered. They sold the house and put the money into some kind of trust for the kids. Didn’t fetch very much.’ Joseph gave a bitter half-smile. ‘Apparently buyers were put off by what had happened in the living room.’

‘What about all your stuff?’

‘Got rid of everything. I knew I was going away for a long time.’

‘Mate.’ Akash looked slightly embarrassed, rubbing his nose.

‘Um, if you need work while you get back on your feet, I can give you some hours, no problem.’

Joseph stood up and clapped his friend on the back. ‘Thanks. I might just take you up on that.’

‘Where are you off to this morning? Got a date?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Joseph.

•

Although this
was
a bit like a blind date, he reflected as he sat opposite the starchy woman at the employment agency. He’d finally had enough of being cold, and had paid a visit to a charity shop. Now he was bundled into a long black overcoat and paisley scarf, both with that charity-shop smell.

The starchy woman was fiftyish, greyish and bored. ‘Snowing again out there?’ she asked absently as they both took seats.

‘Thinking about it.’

She was reading through the form he’d just filled in. ‘Now, Mr Scott . . .’ Her brow furrowed in mild surprise. ‘Degree in history, MA in European history, PGCE, secondary school teacher for um, eleven years. Oh.’ She blinked. ‘You were head of department at Tetlow High? I know people who’ve moved house to get their children in there. That’s impressive.’

‘Also irrelevant.’

‘I’m sorry, but . . . why are you here? Surely you have better channels? Education sector magazines, websites, specialist agencies—the broadsheets have employment sections. Really, this isn’t the right agency for you at all.’

‘Keep reading.’

She obeyed, her eyes skimming down the page. ‘Then a gap, I see. Three years. No employment at all during that time?’

‘Not really.’

‘Any reason?’

‘Keep going.’

She turned the sheet, hunching over as she read. It was several seconds before she looked up and met his gaze.

‘I don’t think I’m going to be top candidate for a teaching post, do you?’ Joseph’s voice was even. ‘School boards might run a little shy of people with convictions for manslaughter. Makes the parents jumpy.’

He saw her eyes flicker towards the door, as though measuring how fast she could get to it. Then she seemed to pull herself together, grabbing her computer mouse and squinting at the screen.

‘Um . . .’ She cleared her throat. ‘Yes, I think we can assume that positions involving work with children are definitely closed to you.’

‘Forever,’ said Joseph.

‘Probably. And I don’t think you’ll get far applying for bartending work, anything involving alcohol or vulnerable people—people at all, in fact. So caring for the elderly is out . . . ditto security . . . Um, let’s see what we’ve got.’

Joseph waited as she clicked, sighed, and clicked again. Eventually she wrote a couple of notes on her pad. ‘Your qualifications don’t count for much in this economic climate, especially not with that particular blot on your copybook. All I’ve got at the moment is a window-cleaning firm. They have a high turnover so they might give you a go.’

‘Offices?’

‘And schools. Including . . .’ She checked her screen. ‘Oh. Perhaps not, after all.’

‘Including Tetlow High.’

She nodded, watching him. She seemed fascinated.

‘I really appreciate your help,’ said Joseph, pressing both hands on the table as he got to his feet, ‘but I think that gazing through the window at my old swivel chair would probably finish me off.’

She saw him to the street door. ‘Good luck,’ she said as she opened it. ‘Really, I mean that. Good luck.’

Joseph paused on the threshold. ‘I never thought I’d miss the place.’

‘Tetlow High?’

‘Armley Jail. Three days ago, I knew who I was. I knew what was going to happen every second of every day. They had me teaching literacy. I was useful. I was even respected. I actually had a positive impact on men’s lives.’

A chill seeped into the office, laden with exhaust fumes. The girl on the front desk answered the phone.

Joseph smiled ruefully. ‘Not useful out here, am I?’

•

He bought coffee and found a quiet seat in the window of a proper greasy caff—one of many institutions he’d been surprised to find himself missing over the past three years, with its moulded plastic seats and air permeated by the fug of fat frying. The place was heaving with people in woollen hats and anoraks; a haven from the cheerlessness of the street. Outside, snow had turned to sleet and then to rain. The odds on a white Christmas had just lengthened.

Sitting unnoticed in the crowd, Joseph took off his coat and scarf before pulling a phone from his pocket. It had been held in storage by the prison authorities and looked comically clunky compared to the slim-line gadgets he saw around him. He had a call to make, and he was dreading it.

He tried her mobile number first, but there was no answer. Scrolling through his contacts, he found
Marie work
. He pressed
call
and waited, staring through the steamed-up window at the road. Three workmen in shiny wet-weather jackets were lifting a manhole cover.

On the eighth ring, someone answered. It wasn’t Marie. Far too gentle.

‘Women’s refuge?’

‘Hi.’ Joseph’s throat seemed cluttered. He had to clear it. ‘Um, is Marie Scott still the manager there?’

A distinct hesitation. Then the soft voice again. ‘I’m sorry, but would you mind telling me the nature of your call?’

I’m calling
b
ecause I’ve got nobody else.
‘I’m her brother,’ he said. ‘Joseph Scott.’

‘You’re
who
?’

He repeated his name patiently. This time there was an even longer pause, with scandalised whispers in the background. Joseph could imagine the effect of his name uttered in a women’s refuge. He was, after all, the poster boy for everything they most reviled. He was a man who killed women.

In the end he caught a muffled ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ This was followed by a thud, as though the phone had been knocked against something; then a stronger voice.

‘Joe?’

Joseph’s lips curved wistfully. Ah, now. Here was his sister, her speech still rich with the music of Tyneside. She’d always called him Joe, somehow managing to give the name more than one syllable.

‘Hi.’ He closed his eyes. ‘It’s me.’

She sounded impatient. ‘So I gather. You’re out, then.’

‘Yes. I’m out . . . Um, how are you?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘That’s good.’

‘What d’you want?’

I want you to forgive. I want you to love me again.

‘I don’t know,’ he said, despising the pleading jocularity in his own voice. ‘I just thought I’d get in touch, see how you’re doing. Maybe I could come up and visit you?’

‘Have you dealt with your anger issues?’

‘I don’t think I really have a problem with anger.’

‘Ha!’ He’d forgotten that mirthless bark. ‘Have you not? I very much doubt whether Zoe would agree.’

‘Come on. You’ve known me all my life. You, of all people, know who and what I am.’

‘No, Joe. I don’t know who you are.’

He imagined her in the kitchen of the refuge, perhaps carrying out the bin bags or counselling some downtrodden girl with a miserable baby; he could picture his sister’s careworn face and frizzy hair. He longed to reach out to her down the line. ‘Please, sis. Nobody hates me more than I do myself.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘What do you want me to do—crawl away and die?’

Her accent broadened. ‘I’m surprised you can joke about death, in view of your history.’

‘You
know
I’m not a monster. Was I a budding psycho as a child? No. Did I fry ants under a magnifying glass, or kick our cat? No. Did I pull girls’ pigtails? Never, as far as I recall, though I do remember getting myself beaten up savagely that time Matthew Brown called you a fat slag and I stood up for you even though I was half his size. Now, Matty Brown actually
was
a bully. And then there was Jared, who—’

‘Never mind all that. I’ll admit you didn’t display any of the classic signs. But you’ve made up for that royally.’

The trio of workmen were sliding barriers around their open manhole.

‘Please,’ begged Joseph. ‘If you could just take the time to hear my side—’

‘Oh, I’ve heard your side of the story, Joe. I went along to your sentencing, and I sat there open-bloody-mouthed as I listened to what that poor female barrister had to say on your behalf. I hope they paid her lavishly for the public humiliation. I heard what you told your probation officer. I heard an awful lot of snivelling about life with Zoe, I heard shitloads of self-justification and self-pity. It’s Zoe’s side of the story we never heard! The judge might have been taken in but, believe me, I wasn’t. I’ve come across a thousand men exactly like you, violent men who think their women deserve everything they get. So let me tell you this, Joseph Scott: until you take responsibility and accept it was entirely your fault—not Zoe’s, not Hannah’s, not Frederick’s—until then, you needn’t even bother applying for membership of the human race, so far as I’m concerned.’

‘Look, Marie—’

‘Oh, piss off.’ A click, then a continuous tone. As rejections go, this one was pretty unequivocal.

•