A Thousand Cuts (19 page)

It’s out with Micky again. This time he loses it to Mr Pressplay and the ball goes loose and Terence is nearer but I’m quicker. I get it and Terence is behind me and he’s expecting me to do the turn, right, the one I showed you before, but instead what I do is—

What? I’m telling you, aren’t I?

No you didn’t, you said you wanted me to tell you what happened at the match.

Well, you should of fucking said so.

You fucking didn’t. Jesus Christ. You’re worse than my fucking mum.

All right all right. It wasn’t till the second half though. I mean, loads of stuff happened before then, like Don, he scored this blinding volley, right—

Can I at least tell you the score? Are you gonna get your period if I tell you the score?

Four-nil. We were four-nil up at half-time. The teachers, they’re fucking shattered. Terence is on his feet but the rest of em haven’t got the juice to suck on a piece of orange. Us lot, we’re having a brilliant time. Mickey’s doing keepy-ups and Don’s lighting up a fag and the rest of us are just chatting and messing about. We could of been seven or eight up, easy. I mean, we’ve won. It’s only half-time but basically we’ve won. So when Bickle blows his whistle and we jog back on to the pitch, that’s when Don gives me the nod. The game’s over, right? Time for a bit of fun.

Bumfluff is last on again. He’s in a state. He hasn’t touched the ball all match, cept for when he’s been picking it out of the net and rolling it out to Terence, but he’s fallen over a fair few times; fallen or been made to fall. So he’s covered in mud and he’s limping from where Don stamped on him and he’s got a bruise across his ribs probably cos that’s where I gave him a little dig when I was up on his line for a corner. Oh, I didn’t say, did I, I can’t believe I didn’t say. Don pulled down his shorts. In front of everyone. We were all waiting for a free kick and Terence, he was shouting at Bumfluff, saying, watch it, Sam, don’t fucking miss it, here it comes now, and Bumfluff almost looked like he was making an effort. He had his knees bent and he was holding his hands up in front of his chin and his tongue was sticking out between his teeth and just as the ball came over and Bumfluff was about to make this leap into the air, Don crouches down behind him and gives his shorts a tug.

The ball went in. Bumfluff fell over and the ball went in. If someone had been filming it we’d of been, thank you very much: five hundred quid from
You’ve Been Framed
.

Anyway, the point is that when it comes to the second half Bumfluff is looking a bit sorry for himself, like he’d rather take a kick in the nuts than come back out on to the field. But us lot, we’re buzzing, and I know you don’t want to hear it all but basically we kick off and pass it around and one thing leads to another and we end up getting a corner. Happy with that or was that too much detail?

So this is it. Micky’s taking the corner and Don and me are standing on the edge of the box. Mr Pressplay’s got a post and Grunt’s come back to pick up Scott and Terence is covering the short one. The caretaker’s taking care of me and Don but we make it easy for him cos we don’t move. Yet. Bumfluff, he’s just standing on his line. He’s not even looking at the ball. What he’s looking at is the two of us, like he knows what’s about to happen. But he can’t do anything about it, can he? There’s nothing that he can do.

Micky knocks it in. It goes high. Mr Pressplay leaves his post. Scott draws Roth to one side. Don moves. I move. The caretaker doesn’t know which way to move. The ball’s falling now and Bumfluff’s watching it but he’s also watching us. He sees us coming. He sees us smiling. The ball finds someone’s head but I don’t know whose cos I wasn’t looking. It bounces in front of us. It bounces in front of Bumfluff. It distracts him, just for a second. He flaps at it. He misses. Don slides and I slide. The ball goes in, I think, but we’re still sliding, through the mud and the water and with our feet sticking out in front of us like we’re Bruce Lee aiming a kick at some other chink’s head. We would of slid for ever if there hadn’t been something there to stop us.

Don got his knee. I got his ankle. Not quite simultaneous but near enough. The sound it made was like ice cubes. You know, like when you drop ice cubes in a warm glass of Coke.

I got up. Don got up. Bumfluff stayed down. He was squealing again. Actually, he was screaming. He was on his back and he was writhing. He had one hand on his leg and his other arm across his eyes. The crowd, they were cheering so I suppose the ball must of gone in. But it felt like they were cheering for us.

Grunt was closest. I don’t know whether he saw it but he thought he did. He collars us. He’s like, you boys, what the hell do you think you’re doing? And we’re like, what, what, let go you twat, let go. Bickle blows his whistle. He’s still blowing it when he reaches us.

What’s going on here? Mr Grant. Mr Grant!

And Grunt’s shaking us and sort of growling and he’s looking at Bumfluff on the floor but it’s like he doesn’t want to let us go.

I dunno, sir, goes Don. I dunno. And he’s holding out his arms, you know, like players do on the telly when they’re about to get carded by the ref.

They did it on purpose, goes Grunt. You little thugs. You did it on purpose.

And it’s like Bickle notices Bumfluff for the first time, even though he’s screaming still and crying probably and making more racket than the crowd.

Did you? he goes. Did you do it on purpose?

And I shake my head and Don’s like, course not, sir, we were going for the ball. It was fifty-fifty.

And Bickle looks at Bumfluff and he looks at Grunt and he looks at Bumfluff again. Let them go, he says. Let them go, Mr Grant.

But Mr Travis—

I said let them go. And he sort of turns away but then stops and spins back. And see to Szajkowski, will you? He’s making a fool of himself. He’s making a mockery of this game.

And we jog away and we pass Terence and he’s just fucking smiling. He knows what we’ve done and he’s glad. As far as he’s concerned, Bumfluff’s lost him the match. Which is bullshit of course, they’d of lost with Gordon Banks in goal, but that’s what Terence thinks. So he’s smiling and he even gives Don this little wink.

It was that easy. I mean, I couldn’t believe it. Don says later, he’s like, no sweat, Gi, what could they of done? And he was right I spose but I was still expecting a fuss, like a warning or a detention or even a fucking suspension, I mean we snapped his fucking leg. But we didn’t get so much as a yellow. Bumfluff got stretchered off, the caretaker went in goal, Don scored two more goals and in the end we won nine-nil.

So that’s it. The end. Can I go now?

we R watchN U.
evN f U cnt c us we cn c U

The blind was halfway closed and the overhead lights were off. She almost did not notice him shaking. She stood for a moment by the doorway and then made her way past him to the window.

‘Do you mind?’ she said. He raised his head and turned to look at her. She waited but he said nothing. She pulled at the cord and the slats of the blind flipped wide. Dust scattered, fleeing the daylight. Elliot’s father recoiled.

‘Sorry,’ said Lucia and she angled the slats so that the light was less obtrusive. ‘Are you too hot? Would you like me to open a window?’

Again he did not respond.

‘What about a drink? Can I get you some more water?’

This time he croaked a reply. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Really.’

Lucia nodded. She hesitated, then moved around the table into his eye line. ‘May I?’ she said and she pulled out a chair. In her hand she held a transparent plastic bag. In the bag was a mobile telephone, a silver Motorola with a colour screen. Lucia sat down. She placed the phone on the table. Elliot’s father looked at it, then looked away.

 

do aL gingrs smeL of piss?

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. Her hands were resting on the table in front of her. She pulled back, allowing her hands to drop into her lap. Then she lifted them again and this time placed her elbows on the surface, her chin in the crevice between her thumb and forefinger. Finally, she let her forearms fold downwards and clasped her midriff with her palms. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.

 

wot hapnd 2 yor fAc? how lng til U dI of cancer??

‘Since when?’

‘I don’t know. Since he started. I don’t know.’

‘But these were recent. They were sent recently.’

‘Maybe he deleted the others. I don’t know. Probably he deleted them. Wouldn’t you?’

‘You didn’t suspect, though.’

‘We thought he was making friends. We were pleased. We thought . . . I don’t know what we thought.’

‘He didn’t say anything.’

‘No. Nothing. They just used to arrive. He would read them and he would look at the screen for a while and then he would put the phone back in his pocket. Until the next one came.’

‘Did he reply?’

‘Yes. No. I don’t know. I thought he did.’

‘It doesn’t look like he did. Not to these.’

‘Then he didn’t. I guess he didn’t.’

‘It looks like they were sent from a website.’

‘A website. Which website?’

‘There are dozens of them. We’re looking into it but we won’t find anything. We won’t be able to prove who sent them.’

‘I see.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’ve said that. You’ve already said that.’

 

f U dont wash dat tng off yor fAc we R goin 2 cut it off

The room was small but he had wedged his chair under the table and created an area in which to pace. He waved an arm and hit the blind without meaning to. As he spoke he spat.

‘They hounded him. They fucking hounded him.’

Lucia watched. She waited.

‘It’s not bullying. It’s worse than bullying. It’s mental fucking torture. That’s what it is.’

He knocked the blind again and then turned on it, swiping at it this time as though it had goaded him. Something fell on to the floor: the valance. He swore. He picked it up. He stood holding it and he looked at Lucia. There was spittle at the corner of his mouth.

Lucia waited. She watched.

He dropped the valance and he wiped his sleeve across his face. He turned and pressed his forehead against the ragged blind, followed by his palms. The room darkened. Lucia closed her eyes.

 

f U ask any1 4 hlp we wiL burn yor hows

She pressed the evidence bag smooth against the table. Air bubbled in a corner as she ran her hand from one side to the other and she was reminded suddenly of skin blistered by the sun. She moved the bag to one side.

There was nowhere else to look so she looked at Elliot’s father. He held the mobile phone in front of him, his elbow on the table, his thumb twitching as he scrolled. His other hand was across his mouth. Periodically he muttered, shut his eyes, allowed his hand to drift up to his forehead and down again. He had known what to expect when he had asked to look again at the texts. Like Lucia, he was probably already able to recount them by now in the order in which they had been sent, down to the syntax and the spelling so outlandish to his generation. Looking at the screen, though, he would be able to suffer what his son had suffered. He would be able to suffer and his suffering would for an instant displace his grief.

 

Njoy yor vzit 2 d hospital. I hOp dey mAk U beta so we cn fck U up agen

Lucia carried in two coffees. ‘It’s got caffeine in it,’ she said. ‘That’s the best I can say for it.’

Elliot’s father took the paper cup that Lucia had brought for him. He muttered his thanks, shook his head when Lucia offered the crumpled packets of sugar she held in her palm.

She sat. She looked at her notes, checked her watch, glanced across. Elliot’s father had his hand wrapped around his cup. Lucia’s was so hot she could barely hold on to it long enough to lift it to her lips. He was gripping his and he was staring at his fingers.

‘I need to ask you something,’ Lucia said.

Elliot’s father finally withdrew his hand. ‘I thought that’s what you’d been doing.’

‘Something else.’ Lucia closed her notebook. ‘Something I don’t necessarily expect you to answer.’

He shrugged. He took the lid off his coffee and vapour burst from the cup, intensifying the smell within the room of burnt coffee beans. He set the lid upside down on the table.

‘Why would you send him back?’

Now he looked at her, his expression rigid.

‘I mean, forget about the text messages. You didn’t know. But after what happened. After what they did to him. Why would you even consider sending him back?’

For a moment he held her eye. Then he looked again at his coffee, replaced the lid and slid the cup away.

‘Do you have children, Inspector?’

Lucia shook her head.

‘Brothers with children? Sisters? Do you have friends with children?’

‘No. I don’t.’

‘Then you have no idea.’

It seemed like he would say no more. Lucia lowered her eyes.

‘I work here,’ Elliot’s father said. ‘In the City, I mean. My wife, she doesn’t work. I earn some but not a lot. More than a police detective, I would imagine, but unlike you I have four mouths to feed.’

‘Four?’ said Lucia. Elliot’s father flinched and Lucia realised the implication of what she had said. ‘No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that . . .’

He looked at the table and rubbed his forehead.

‘It’s just, I didn’t know,’ Lucia said. ‘I assumed it was just the three of you.’

‘We have a daughter,’ said Elliot’s father.

Lucia recalled the bicycle in the hallway of their house, the one that had seemed too small for Elliot. ‘She’s younger,’ Lucia said. ‘How old is she?’

‘She’s nine.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Sophie. Her name’s Sophie.’

Lucia nodded. She liked the name but she stopped herself from telling him so.