A Thousand Cuts (10 page)

‘Au contraire. I wouldn’t dream of telling you anything. I’m wondering, that’s all.’

‘What are you wondering, Philip?’ She folded her arms.

‘I’m wondering, Lucia, whether this is about what you think it’s about. Whether in fact it’s about something else.’

‘Like what? What else would it be about?’

‘Like I don’t know. Like maybe you had a dog called Samuel when you were a child. Like maybe you feel some connection with this monster - this man, sorry - just because you read the same books.’

Lucia uncrossed her arms. She dropped her hands into her lap, then tucked them under her armpits once again. ‘That’s ridiculous. I’m doing it - I’m considering it - because it’s my job, that’s all. This is my job.’

‘Your job, surely, is to do what that boss of yours tells you.’

‘You don’t think that. I know you don’t think that.’

Philip shrugged. ‘Maybe not. But I do think you should let this one go.’

Lucia rose once more from her chair. ‘Probably I will. I have to think about it but probably I will. Thanks. For the wine and for the advice. I’d better get going.’

As Philip escorted Lucia to the door, he asked after David. Lucia was surprised it had taken him so long. ‘He’s fine,’ she said. ‘I’d imagine that he’s fine. I’m certain of it, in fact.’

Philip tutted, put his arm round Lucia’s shoulder. ‘There’s someone else though. Tell me that there’s somebody else.’

‘Why does there need to be somebody else?’

‘Because you’re too young to be alone.’

‘I stopped being young when I turned thirty.’

‘Then you’re getting too old to be alone.’

‘You’re old. You’re alone.’

‘How dare you. I’m not even sixty. Besides, I’m young at heart. And I’m only alone when I choose to be.’

Lucia stopped, kissed her host on the cheek. ‘Shame on you, Philip. Corrupting all those young boys.’

‘They’re solicitors, darling. Barristers. As you so charmingly alluded, they’re going to hell as it is.’

 

It was late in the day when she reached the hospital but earlier than she had planned it to be. From Turnham Green she had taken the tube across London and picked up her car at her flat. She had driven to the school and pulled to the side of the road and for an hour at least she had sat. On her way home again she had stopped at the McDonald’s on the Bow Road and ordered French fries and a milkshake at the drive-through. She had parked in the car park and thought about eating but could not. Later, on her way to the hospital, the car had smelt of chip fat, which had made her nauseous but hungry too. She had chewed some chewing gum - soft, flavourless, warm from her pocket - while her stomach had pleaded its case for proper sustenance.

At the door to Elliot’s ward, she wished she had accepted Philip’s invitation to stay for lunch. She imagined salmon and salads and something with strawberries for dessert. They might still be seated on his terrace, three bottles down, a feverish city sunset tinting their reminiscences with sentiment. But at some point Philip would again have asked about David, and Lucia would have had to relive things she did not have the detachment yet to relive. That and the wine would have turned nostalgia into melancholy and when she thought about that she was glad she had not stayed. She wished instead that she had drunk the chocolate milkshake, maybe eaten a few of the chips.

The security glass was cold against her cheek. She could see Elliot in his bed, sitting upright but with his head bowed. There was a woman perched next to him and she too was staring at her hands. The woman looked like Elliot. No, that was not quite accurate. The woman had the same colour hair as Elliot did. That, and their bearing, was what made them seem so alike. The two of them might have been praying. Perhaps, thought Lucia, that was what they were doing.

She should go, she told herself, but she did not move. She watched the boy. She watched his mouth, as resolutely closed as it had been on the previous occasion that Lucia had visited. They might have stitched it shut when they sealed his wound.

The woman was saying something, Lucia realised. She heard her voice but not her words. Someone else came into view - a pair of shoulders, the back of a head, on Lucia’s side of the bed - and Lucia pulled back, out of sight. She should go.

‘Detective Inspector May, isn’t it?’

She stepped away from the door. ‘Doctor,’ she said. ‘Dr Stein.’

‘You’re back,’ the doctor said. ‘I didn’t expect to see you back.’

‘No, I . . . Yes. I’m back.’

‘This is his last day, you know. He’ll be leaving us in the morning.’ The doctor reached past her. ‘After you,’ he said and as the door opened and Lucia edged forwards, Elliot’s family turned to look.

‘Really, I don’t want to disturb anyone,’ Lucia said. She lingered. She directed a nod into the room. She smiled.

‘I’d rather you disturbed my patients during visiting hours. Please.’ The doctor gestured her inside. He overtook Lucia as they crossed the room. He was speaking, sounding upbeat, sounding competent, and though Elliot’s parents responded to his enquiries, it was Lucia they watched.

She stopped several paces from Elliot’s bed. She had meant her expression to seem apologetic, to convey kindness and concern and to let them know she had no desire to intrude but the longer she stood there with her teeth clenched and her lips tight, the more insincere, the more gormless, she realised she must look. She should have said something but she had left it too late. She would have to wait now until they asked her who she was, or until Dr Stein introduced her, which he had no obvious intention of doing.

‘Fine,’ he was saying. ‘All fine. The stitches are doing what they’re supposed to but I’m going to have to change this dressing, young man. It may sting, just a fraction.’

Lucia cleared her throat finally and was about to say something but before she could speak the doctor removed the bandage that had been taped across Elliot’s ear. For the first time Lucia was able to see the wound. The lobe of Elliot’s ear was gone. The boy did not flinch but Lucia did.

‘I’m sorry. Who are you?’

It was Elliot’s mother who had spoken. Lucia looked at her and then at Elliot’s father. She glanced at Elliot and caught him watching her but the boy quickly dropped his gaze.

Dr Stein raised his head. ‘I assumed the three of you had met.’

‘No,’ said Lucia. ‘No, we haven’t. I’m Lucia. Lucia May. I’m with the Met. The Metropolitan Police.’

‘The police?’ Elliot’s mother turned towards her husband.

‘You have some news,’ Elliot’s father said. ‘Do you have some news?’

‘No,’ Lucia said. ‘I’m sorry. That’s not why I’m here.’

Elliot’s father sought direction from Dr Stein. He got none. ‘Then why are you here?’

‘I brought something,’ Lucia said. She unfurled the carrier bag she was holding and reached inside. ‘For your son.’

‘What? What have you brought?’

‘It’s a book, dear.’

‘I can see that, Frances. Why have you brought my son a book?’ He looked at his son but Elliot sat still. Only the boy’s eyes moved as Lucia placed the book on the bed.

‘It’s
The Hobbit
,’ Lucia said. ‘You’ve probably read it. It’s just, I thought it might help.’

For a moment no one spoke. Lucia straightened the carrier bag and began to fold it. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt.’ She nodded at Elliot’s mother but avoided his father’s eye. She tucked the carrier into her pocket and made to go. Over the rustle of the bag, she almost failed to hear the sound of Elliot’s fragile voice.

‘Thanks.’

Lucia turned. The doctor and Elliot’s parents were staring at the boy. Elliot had his head down still. The fingers of his right hand were resting on the book.

‘You’re welcome,’ Lucia said. ‘I hope you like it. You’ll have to tell me whether you like it.’

Elliot’s father caught up with her in the corridor. He took hold of her elbow and pulled her around.

‘Who are you?’ he said. ‘Why are you here?’

A nurse squeezed past them. Lucia moved to one side of the hallway. Elliot’s father followed.

‘Has something happened? Is there something you can tell us?’

Lucia shook her head. ‘It’s not my case, Mr Samson. I just wanted to give Elliot the book, that’s all.’

‘Not your case? What do you mean, it’s not your case? Why are you bringing my son books if it’s not your case? Why are you bringing my son books at all?’

‘I heard what happened to him. I . . . I don’t know. I thought the book might cheer him up.’

Elliot’s father was smiling now but there was no humour in his expression. ‘Cheer him up? Do you know what I think might cheer him up? Arresting the kids who did this to him. Locking them away. Making sure they don’t have a chance to do this to him again. That might cheer him up.’

‘I appreciate what you’re saying, Mr Samson, really I do. But it’s difficult. From what I understand—’

‘Don’t tell me that there were no witnesses. I don’t want to hear there were no witnesses.’

‘Please, Mr Samson. It’s not my case. Much as I would like to, I can’t help you. Maybe if you spoke to PC Price—’

Elliot’s father scoffed. ‘Price. Price is a moron. He’s an idiot.’

‘He’s just trying to do his job.’

‘Bullshit. As far as I can see, no one here is doing their job. Not one of you. You’re spending your time shopping for presents and Price is sitting around contemplating how to get his finger out of his arse.’

‘I should go, Mr Samson. I really think I should go.’ Lucia backed away. As she turned, she closed her eyes and almost collided with another nurse. Lucia muttered her apologies and slid past.

‘Stay away from my son. Do you hear me? The whole damn lot of you. Stay away from my son!’

Lucia focused on the floor. She hurried on.

Don’t ask me when, don’t ask me how. They did it though. I saw it. I wish to God I hadn’t but I was sitting right beside him when he found it.

That was the only time I heard him swear. Usually the staffroom’s like Bill Nicholson Way on a Saturday. We have a swear box, much good it does. The money’s supposed to go to charity, to some hospice or hospital, but I don’t think they’ve ever seen a penny of it. We raid it. The teachers do. You know, for ice creams, biscuits, that sort of thing. I probably shouldn’t tell you that, should I? I’ll probably get the lot of us thrown in gaol. Janet, the headmaster’s secretary, she’s the worst. If you’re going to arrest anyone, arrest her.

Samuel, though. I’d never heard Samuel swear, not until that day. I won’t repeat what he said but you could hardly blame him. Christ knows what the kid must have been eating. I haven’t ever seen a turd that colour. I’d be at the doctor’s in a jiffy if I had. And the size of it. He must have been saving up for days. I won’t mention the smell because you can imagine the smell.

He jumps right up when he sees it, like it’s a tarantula in there or something. He jumps and he knocks the table and coffee, people’s coffee, it goes everywhere. There are a few of us, you know, scattered around on the chairs, around this big coffee table that we’ve got in there, and we’re marking papers or flicking through
The Times
or the
Sun
or whatever it is we’re doing. I was reading a book, this book I got sent from the States. It’s about the stock market, stocks and shares. It’s called
How to Invest Your Salary and Make Loads of Money and Retire While You’ve Still Got a Life
. Something like that. My cousin, Frank, he lives in Minnesota, he’s the one who sent it to me. Reckons he’s made a hundred k in sixteen months. Dollars he’s talking about but still. And he’s basically a moron and I teach economics, right, so I’m thinking, if he can do it, how hard can it be?

The coffee. It goes everywhere. The others start hollering, moaning at Samuel, saying Jesus Christ this, bloody hell that. But I’ve seen what he’s seen and I’m watching this turd roll on to the floor, under the table, and I’m watching Samuel’s face and I can’t help but look at this turd. The others can’t see it yet but they can smell it. Vicky, Vicky Long, she teaches drama, she’s the first. She lifts her chin and flares her nostrils and starts aiming them round the room like the barrels of a shotgun. All very theatrical. She sniffs - rapid fire, sniff sniff sniff. Then the others start doing it. Sniffing. All of them. Sniff sniff sniff. By this time I’ve got my face tucked into my shirt so as the lot of them are sniffing they also start looking at me. And I’m saying, don’t look at me, it’s got nothing to do with me, and that’s when Samuel picks it up.

He could have used a plate or something. Wrapped it in newspaper. I mean, there was a copy of the
Sun
just lying there and that’s about all it’s good for, right? But for whatever reason Samuel doesn’t feel the need. He just reaches down and picks it up, like maybe he’s dropped his pen, like all he’s doing is picking up his pen. He holds it up. Everyone can see it now. They can see it but that doesn’t explain it. What they’re seeing is Samuel Szajkowski, this weird little bloke with his fluffy little beard, standing in the staffroom, holding up a day-old turd.

It was in his case, I say. He found it in his case.

Because if I hadn’t said that I don’t know what the others would have done. Ran out screaming, half of them. Samuel’s not taking any notice though, he’s just staring at this thing in his hand. For some reason I think he’s going to drop it on me. Throw it to me to catch. I don’t know why. He doesn’t and he wouldn’t have but when someone’s standing over you, his fist around a great big turd, you don’t want to take any chances, do you?

We watch him, the rest of us. Or I do, Vicky does, Chrissie Hobbs does. Matilda and George, they turn away. They don’t want to see it. The rest of us don’t want to see it either but, like I said before, your attention’s kind of drawn to it.

Chrissie, she’s the first to respond. Here, she says. Let me get something.