Retard (12 page)

“One more to go!” she said and held up the last gift. “This isn’t from Santa, or from Aunt Sally. This is from
me
. Happy Christmas, Wesley.”

He took it from her.

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

He nodded. “Thank you, Mum.”

She smiled. “Go ahead! Open it.”

Extract from telephone interview between Dr. Graham Burns and Sally Fielding, fifty-six. Conducted October 12
^th
.

SF: Hello?

GB: Mrs. Fielding. It’s Graham again. Please don’t hang up.

SF: Graham?

GB: Dr. Graham Burns. I’m the research psychologist working on the story of the Stephenson Case. We spoke briefly last month.

SF: Oh. You.

GB: Please don’t hang up! (Laughs) I’m sorry. I feel like a cold caller. I must apologise for our last conversation. Perhaps I was a little abrupt—

SF: There’s no need to apologise for your phone manner. You need to apologise for this. This…what is it? A book?

GB: That’s the eventual goal, yes. A book to reveal the truth of the events in the Stephenson household that Christmas.

SF: Everyone knows the truth. It was on the news, in the papers. Why should we have to go over it? Again and again! To this day everyone still hounds us over what Chrissie did. Some things should stay buried, Dr. Burns. You shrinks are all the same.

GB: Not quite. Please, don’t see this as an attempt by some hackneyed real life crime writer trying to make a fast and easy pay packet. The more we study the cases of the past, the better prepared we are to prevent such events transpiring again. Sadly… (sighs). I’m sorry. I digress.

SF: I’m not falling for the sales pitch. We’re done here. As far as I’m concerned, I never knew the bloody Stephensons, okay?

GB: So you’re going to turn a blind eye?

SF: (hangs up)

14.

This was it. What it had all been about over the last few weeks.

Wesley had tried, God knew how hard he’d tried, to be good and do as he was told. His mum had promised him that Santa would bring him the one thing he wanted most of all. His legs and buttocks still burned like hot skewers were poked through his muscle. None of that mattered. Not the way his cheek still screamed when he spoke, or the rope burns, or the constant, dull ache at his crotch and pit of his stomach. He had earned this.

“Go ahead. Open it,” said Commander Yorin, standing behind the sofa, towering over him. “You deserve this, little wizard.”

“Thy reward has come,” said EagleEye. He leaned against the wall, supernatural eyes hidden by his hood, only his warm smile on display.

Sasha squeezed his shoulder. She sat on the arm of the sofa, her short skirt riding up to reveal more of her flawless thigh. Wesley ached to reach out and stroke her bare skin.

“Wesley?” said his mother. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

He snapped back to the package laying across his lap and began to run a finger beneath a strip of tape, taking his time, enjoying the moment.

Within, he felt smooth plastic.

His mother lit her cigarette. “Don’t take all day,” she said, but her smile had returned. He guessed she was enjoying this as much him.

It’s about the giving, not the receiving.

He wished he’d been able to see out the school year and bring home all the things he’d made for her: the card, the decorations for the tree and the 1988 calendar.

“Thank you, Mum,” he said, spreading the wrapping paper and meeting eyes with…

He blinked.

“Happy Christmas, Wesley!”

“Commander Yorin?” He looked up.

“Just like David got, remember?” said his mother. “Look. It comes with his axe and his gun…and now you have someone to go in that dragon car thing! Isn’t that cool?”

He met her eyes. “I wanted Globin.”

“What?”

He held up the toy. “I wanted Globin! With his removable hat, spell book and action move. This isn’t Globin!” He flung it across the room.

His mother was on him like a shot, lashing out with a firm left-handed slap that missed and scuffed the top of his head. Ready for the next one, Wesley managed to lift an arm and block the incoming right.

“Ungrateful…” she roared, the cigarette falling from her lips. “Greedy…little…”

Her momentum had carried her on top of him, and they fought against each other on the sofa. She tried to land a stopping blow while he struggled to wiggle out from beneath her.

Her knee snapped up, connecting squarely with his pained testicles.

The air rushed from his lungs, and even the sting of his burns was swamped by the cloud of deep, sickening agony.

“That’ll teach you,” she growled, gasping. “Just you wait. Just you wait! You’ll be back in that room. Maybe I’ve been too soft on you. Maybe I’ve been punishing you in all the wrong places…”

Wesley sucked in a breath.

His mother pushed her advantage, climbing to a more commanding position. She sat on his stomach, her legs hooked around his and pushing them into the sofa cushions. Her snarling face hovered before his. She gripped his flailing wrists.

“Ungrateful little shit. You have no idea, do you? No idea, you fucking retard.”

He thrashed, taking her by surprise and slipping his right arm free. He thrust up, aiming to poke her in the eye but only managing a weak smack against the side of her face.

She took it, the slap barely registering in her fury, and responded in kind, smashing him in the face with three short, sharp blows. The sofa seemed to flip, and him with it, yet she held him tight. He tried to blink away the sparks.

“Fuck you,” he hissed.

Her hands found his throat. “What did you say?”

He glared back up at her, his strength already gone, her weight too much to shift.

“Say it to me again. After all I did! Say it to me again!”

Her thumbs dug into his throat. He retched, but even that caught. Everything seemed so far away, a dream in which he was powerless to intervene. If only he had a spell or potion. Globin always had a spell or a potion.

He thought of the toy he had seen in the shops. Globin. Complete with removable hat and book of spells. That’s all he wanted. She couldn’t even manage one simple thing. “You…promised…”

He closed his eyes, floating. Maybe he did have magic powers after all.

“You ruin everything,” his mother screamed. “Everything!”

15.

Graham clicked off the Dictaphone, swallowed, and hit record once more.

“Don’t include this. Just wanted to say to you, dear typist, that I apologise for the quality of that last part. It’s late. My voice is tired and…well…these things are not easy to talk about. I’m sure you understand.”

The downstairs party had ended. Those still not drunk enough, or too drunk to know better, had staggered off into town. Only clubs would be open at this hour. With the music over for the night, and the chat and laughter of the workforce either sleeping it off at home or keeping the party going elsewhere, Graham was left in a silent, empty building, alone with his reports, interviews and trusty JVC Dictaphone.

He flicked through the explosion of paperwork on his desk finding the article from The Sun newspaper from January 1988.

Record. “This...well, this changed everything. My research into the case hit a wall at this point, with neither the gentleman named as the reporter for this story, nor any official Government source, willing to talk to me. This strikes me as odd.

“The story recounts the believed events that transpired Christmas Day morning. Through my experience and study into the case, I can confirm that most of the facts
are
correct. Following a phone call, the authorities were alerted to a suspected murder at the Stephenson’s address. Police at the scene found a young boy, Wesley Thomas Stephenson, in a state of severe neglect. Cigarette burns adorned his body, and the boy showed signs of dehydration and malnourishment. Wesley had been strangled.

The last few paragraphs state that the boy’s mother, Christine Pamela Stephenson, twenty-eight, had been arrested by police on grounds of murder, grievous bodily harm and neglect.”

Graham stretched his back. Here came the juicy meat that his publisher had smelled. Any of their talented writers could have written this book, simply regurgitated the known facts and slapped a fancy cover on it, something with a beaten boy, an image to tug on the heart strings—and wallets—of the nation. He had the missing piece of the jigsaw spread about his desk in the various reports and interviews. It was time for authenticity. The truth. The real
fucking
deal.

He cleared his throat and spoke once more into the device.

“Again, understand that at the time, in a world still alive behind closed doors, the number of child abuse cases was higher than the Government released. Some cases were downgraded to pettier crimes. Others were simply swept under the carpet. Professionals responsible for the protection of children, the children’s charities and branches of social services, had a better understanding of the frequency of these cases, and put the Government under constant pressure to review their stance and admit their shortcomings.

“The Government needed a spokesman, a case that caught the attention of the media and showed, once and for all, that these horrendous crimes were happening and that little clemency would be granted to these diabolical monsters abusing our children.

“The Stephenson case did indeed set the front pages aflame. Reported cases rose exponentially. The beast had finally been pushed into the light. Children’s lives were saved. Organisations were happier with the outcome, the fact that something proactive was finally being done.

“All it took was the torture and death of one little boy. However, I cannot find any further detail on the fate of Christine Stephenson. Today, her trial would be closely documented, broadcasted and debated. Back in early eighty-eight, her story appears to go cold. Is she is prison? What term is she currently serving? Has she been released to salvage what she can of her life?”

Graham slipped a piece of paper free from one of the many piles.

“I have here a very special account on further details that played out on that very important and tragic Christmas morning.” He again cleared his throat and took a sip of his cold coffee. “Ready, my faithful typist? We’ve gone this far.”

15.

Old, familiar habits soothed, despite the tempest raging in Christine’s head. She paced back and forth behind the sofa, avoiding the magnetic glances at the frail body lying on the cushions. She failed once again.

Her hand was held to the side of her brow, flapping back and forth.

Minutes ago, he’d been alive and well, unwrapping his Christmas presents with gusto. She’d lost her temper. Wesley’s face still bore his ugly, inflamed swellings. At a casual look, he might be sleeping. Something about his body denied the comforting lie: the complete stillness, the chest flattened over empty lungs.

This is bad, thought Christine, ever moving. Christ I need a drink.

Rushing around the side of the sofa, keeping her back to the body, she swept her new pack of cigarettes from the carpet. The one she’d been smoking at the time had extinguished without setting the house ablaze.

Into the kitchen. Life remained normal in here. The mug from her morning coffee waited by the sink to be washed, as did Wesley’s glass and plate containing toast crumbs. Ever her obedient servants, a lighter and ashtray waited on the table. Christine pulled out a cigarette and eventually lit it up, struggling to meet tip with flame, her hands shaking.

What am I going to do?

Her hand shook, her fingers thrummed in the air.

Drink. Then work it out.

She drifted to the cupboard and pulled out her one remaining bottle of booze, the odd green one Sally had brought her from Asia. Malaysia or Indonesia or some such exotic place. Desperate, Christine grabbed the first glass she set her teary gaze on, one so tall and thick it looked more like a vase. She unscrewed the cap and winced from the stench that blossomed. The random spirit smelled like a hospital floor.

Christine half-filled the large glass and found it raised to her lips before adding her customary splash of lemonade. She glugged most of it down, relishing the burn over her tongue and down her throat. Where ever this came from, they knew how to make a strong fucking drink.

As long as it does the job, she thought. Fuck, what am I going to do?

She pulled the drink away and grimaced. It tasted worse than it smelled. She topped it up, sucked on her cigarette and headed back to the lounge.

Wesley, of course, had not moved.

“Shit, Wes, I’m sorry,” she said.

Commander Yorin stared out from his plastic prison, discarded on the floor.

The choir still sang their hearts out on television. Christine turned it off. It sounded too much like a choir of angels, serenading her boy as he…

Is he in Heaven? He was never a good boy.

What am I going to do?

She followed the thought with another couple of deep swallows from her foul, straight spirit. Already her stomach had started to protest, not used to such concentrations.

Sally would no doubt call in, but she could be easily dealt with. Christine had used the lie often enough it had become second nature. Wesley was sick. Well, you can’t get much sicker!

She considered carrying him upstairs to his bedroom. He’d prefer to be in there. She’d wrap him in his bed sheet as a temporary shroud until she decided how to cope with all this.

The day flustered her again, blowing about her thoughts in a strong gale. This wasn’t how she’d planned it. She was supposed to be preparing a thrifty Christmas lunch now, not panicking over her son’s corpse. How could she even touch it? Had it grown cold yet? Started to rot?

How long do these things take?

“Come on, Christine. Think!” She realised she’d stopped her nervous pacing and was actually thinking about the problem. The drink had kicked in, and she helped it along by draining the glass.