Someone Else's Son (13 page)

Dayna looked away and scratched her neck. ‘You’re such a geek. You don’t have to act all manly because I saw you crying.’

‘I’m not.’

A speeding train cut through their awkwardness, shaking the shed, their bones, the boxes. Max rolled his eyes.

‘I don’t want to go to a library. The cinema’s fine.’ Dayna drained her Coke can.

Max nodded vigorously, almost exploding from the neck up. ‘I wasn’t crying because I wanted to ask you out.’

‘I know,’ Dayna said. She was suddenly reminded of Lorrell holding back her tears after a beating until she got upstairs for a sob on her bed. ‘I know.’

Dayna’s bare feet trod the worn carpet. She reluctantly slid her hand down the sticky banister rail. That cop had come back again. Her mother had barged straight into her room without knocking and dragged her by the arm on to the landing. ‘Get down there and speak to him, whatever it is you’ve done.’

Dayna could smell her mother’s hair – unwashed and smoky. It clumped in stringy bundles, grey at the roots, orange-brown at the uneven ends that hung around her exposed shoulders. She was wearing a mannish vest – wife-beaters, the girls at school called them, only in this case it was the other way round. Dayna thought it made her look like a scrawny bloke.

‘I haven’t done anything.’ Dayna couldn’t see properly because she’d been crying so much. No one understood. Was his body cold yet? she wondered. Had his insides trickled out? She’d read about decomposition when she’d skipped ahead in the biology textbook.

‘Well, he seems to think you have. Go and tell him what he wants to know.’

Dayna reckoned it had only been an hour or so since his last visit; barely long enough to dry her eyes. She felt her mother’s hand in the small of her back shoving her into the living room. She stared at her, praying for her to come in with her. She didn’t. Wasn’t it the law that you had to have a parent with you?

‘Hello, Dayna. I thought I’d come back sooner rather than later to see how you’re doing.’

The cop’s voice was kind although Dayna knew it was fake. Why should he care about anything? There were two of them this time. Dayna’s eyes flicked between them as they sat in the small front room – both of them men, neither in uniform.

‘How do you think I’m doing? My best friend’s dead.’

She sat down on the green velour sofa. They’d had it forever. Lorrell had weed on it, spilt milk on it, she’d been sick on it, food had been eaten on it, and her mother and Kev had shagged themselves stupid on it. Probably, if she thought about it, it was where Lorrell had been made.

‘I want you to help me piece together everything you know about Max’s life, Dayna. But first I need to clarify the events at school. It’s important we don’t waste any more time.’

How could a single morning in April span an entire universe?

‘Do you think Max woke up this morning knowing he wouldn’t get to see the evening?’ Dayna got up and walked to the window, staring out of the grimy glass. It fogged from her breath. Grey cloud and drizzle shadowed everything. It was crazy. Worse than crazy.

‘I—’

‘Do you think he ate breakfast or do you think he thought there was no point? Or that it didn’t matter if he never finished his coursework. Did he wonder that?’

‘I don’t think so, no.’

‘What’s your name?’ Dayna swallowed. The shock of everything had made her forget.

‘You can call me Dennis.’

Dennis the Menace, she thought. Max wouldn’t have liked him.

‘And this is Detective Inspector Marsh.’

A pause.

‘What time did you get up this morning, Dayna?’

‘The usual. About seven. Lorrell gets hungry.’ She turned and went back to the sofa, slumping down and resting her chin in her hand. What could she say? It all had to change now that Max had actually died. ‘Yeah. Seven.’ Her face ached from crying.

‘And did you go straight into school at the normal time?’

‘After I’d got Lorrell sorted, yes.’ A sob hiccupped from her throat.

‘Did you see Max first thing in school?’

Dayna thought. She glanced at the ceiling. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘It’s important.’

‘Well, maybe. I can’t remember. Can I see him?’

Dennis glanced at his colleague. ‘Probably best to wait for the funeral,’ Marsh said. ‘There are tests and things that need to be done.’ His voice was croaky.

‘An autopsy?’ She’d read about those.

Both detectives nodded.

‘So when did you first see Max today?’

Dayna drew a sudden sharp breath. It took her by surprise. ‘Erm, like he was . . .’ She picked her fingernails. ‘He was in maths, I think. Yeah, I saw him in maths.’

‘What was after maths?’

‘Geography then science. Max skipped them. I just did geography then went outside. It was break after science.’

‘Did you go outside to look for Max?’

Dayna shrugged.

‘It’s important, Dayna.’

‘Maybe. I dunno. What’s it matter, anyway? He’s dead, isn’t he?’ She knew she’d have to say it a thousand times at least before the raw edges healed, like picking a scab. Eventually it would be skin but slightly different.

‘I’ll ask you again. When you went outside after geography, were you looking for Max?’

‘Yeah, I guess.’

‘Did you find him?’

‘Not right away.’ Dayna stood up again, unable to keep still. She paced to the window and leant on the sill. She stared out at the front garden. She’d tried to tidy it up after Lorrell got that glass in her foot. ‘I went and got chips. I was hungry.’

‘What time did you find him? It’s important, Dayna.’

‘Maybe about ten fifteen. Perhaps half past.’

‘But geography doesn’t finish until ten forty-five. I thought you said you were in geography.’

Dayna closed her eyes. Behind the blackness of her lids, the safest place she knew, she saw Max’s face. He was grinning at her and, beneath his trademark smile, she knew his body was doing the dance he did when he’d won something. The shimmy that made his legs look ten feet long. His
body
, she thought, flashing open her eyes, gripping the sill.

Then, in the brightness beyond, Dayna saw the river of blood flowing from Max’s hollow chest. Imprinted in her mind was the look on his face as he fell to the ground. She heard the whoops of the youths as they ran off, exhilarated, terrified; heard the ring of panic in her ears as she tried to save Max; heard the wail of the siren as the ambulance approached.

After that, not much was clear. She heard the pounding of her feet as she ran away; heard the breath of a stranger flying in and out of her lungs. Heard the sound of her own sobs as she realised what she’d done.

 

Carrie discharged herself. There was talk of concussion, sedation, monitoring until the initial shock had subsided . . . but how could anything compare to seeing your son’s body lying on a morgue slab, thinking that if you just touched his shoulder lightly, a little nudge, he’d twist on to his side, bleary-eyed, and groan that it wasn’t time to wake up yet, was it, Mum?

When no one would tell her what had happened to her clothes, she left the ward wearing the hospital gown. She didn’t have any shoes. She stopped a cab. She had no idea what she was doing, where her money was to pay the impatient driver as he waited outside her house, hooting the horn while she punched in security codes. She wasn’t sure she even lived there.

Eventually, Carrie leant through the passenger window and dropped a fifty-pound note on to the seat. She walked back up the steps of her house, shut the door and slid down the wall on to the floor. Her naked back pressed against the cold plaster.

Something was making a noise. Every few minutes, an electronic beep cut through her mind as she tried to shore herself up against reality. Her body was weaving itself up in a padded web to numb everything. Soon, she would feel nothing.

Where was Brody? He’d been with a woman, she recalled that much. She had a vague memory of his deep voice – once so dear and familiar – resonating down the hospital corridor, sweeping through her mind as she was wheeled away on a bed. He told her that he’d find her, that they’d face this together. He never came, so she left.

Carrie crawled through the hallway and along the corridor with its shiny wooden floor. She noticed the tiny dents of a thousand high-heeled footsteps. Hers, no doubt, walking through a life where everything was perfect. It was only up close that the dents were visible.

She felt as if she was swimming through treacle as she made her way to the kitchen. What drugs had they given her? Using all her strength, she hoisted herself up against a stool and leant on the glossy kitchen worktop.

‘If they could see me now.’ She felt as if she had flu. Her muscles ached, her eyes burnt in their sockets. ‘The great Carrie Kent.’

The noise was coming from the answer machine. She plucked the phone from its holder on the wall and automatically pressed the buttons. She shivered and tried to pull the wretched hospital gown around her but it refused to cover her properly. Carrying the phone, she headed for the stairs, leaning on the walls and furniture as she went. She pressed play.

Another five frantic messages from Leah asking why she’d left the show were punctuated by beeps.

More of the same. Then a message from her aunt. She obviously didn’t know. Then a message from Dennis Masters. He wanted to talk about a new case for the show.

All these voices yet she was quite alone.

It was dark in her bedroom. She recalled leaving the house in a rush first thing that morning. Martha was having a day off. When she arrived, the woman would normally scoot around tidying, opening blinds, picking up things. Max’s things.

Carrie ran to the bathroom and vomited. She washed her face. She lay on the bed and considered eating all the pills she knew were in her bedside cabinet. They would like that, the newspapers, the celebrity magazines. They hated her, she knew, even though she sold their publications, but she tried to pretend otherwise. Most of the country hated her too, but they still watched her. She was the most popular female television presenter this year, yet probably the most despised.

Profit from depravity: superstar’s luxury lifestyle funded by Britain’s poorest
.

Carrie had laughed at the article. She’d agreed to the interview – a young chap, hungry for an inside scoop. She was reminded of herself years ago as a struggling hack, trying to make a name for herself. There was a spate of reports following the write-up, a couple of attempts to dig up dirt from her past – drugs, gambling, debt, prostitution, abuse. Again Carrie laughed. They found nothing. There
was
nothing.

‘
Noooo
. . .’ The scream pierced her body as if she’d been the one stabbed. She hurled herself on to her side and dragged the pillow round her head. Her nose was pressed into the goose-down quilt and she prayed she would suffocate. Through the other side of the wall was Max’s room. Filled with his stuff. His smells. The leftovers of his life. How would she ever go in there again? Simple. She wouldn’t.

The phone rang.

Carrie grabbed it. It was a connection to the outside world. She felt like the only person left alive.

‘Hello?’ It didn’t sound like her voice.

‘Oh Carrie, Carrie. You’re home.’

‘Leah.’

‘Honey, I’m coming round. I couldn’t find you. They wouldn’t let me near you at the hospital when I came. When I did finally get past them they said you’d left.’

Silence.

‘Carrie?’

‘Just come.’

 

The two women sat entwined, rocking, comforting. Leah made tea, but it formed a skin and went cold. Junk mail rattled the letter box and fell on to the mat.

‘It’s all going on around me. Don’t they know? Can’t they stop?’ Carrie blew her nose but she wasn’t really crying. Her eyes were dry, emotionless, drugged up by the need to detach. ‘Where are the bloody police?’

Leah rocked in time with Carrie. She held on to her shoulders, guiding her back and forth to the rhythm of her breathing. ‘Haven’t you spoken to them yet?’

Carrie shook her head. ‘I passed out at the hospital and hit my head.’

‘They were perhaps waiting until you felt . . . better.’

Carrie stared straight ahead. ‘It was just a call from school. Like he had a sprained ankle or something. The school secretary asked if I could go to the hospital. I didn’t expect my son to be . . . to be . . .’ Carrie didn’t cry. She just swallowed. If she ignored the lump of pain, it would go down. ‘There was a message from Dennis. I should call him.’

‘Fuck the show,’ Leah said. ‘I’ll call Dennis. He can send someone round to give us an update while he’s at it. He must know something. I can’t believe you’re sitting here on your own.’

‘Do you think it’s because . . .’ Carrie faltered. ‘Leah, do you think Max got . . . do you think they did it because of me? Because of who I am?’

Leah was already shaking her head. ‘No, no. Not at all.’ She pulled Carrie against her chest. ‘The police will catch the bastard who did this. He’ll burn in hell.’

There was silence again, more rocking, no tears. ‘I’m alone, aren’t I?’ Carrie asked, not expecting an answer. She thought back to when it was the three of them: Brody, her, Max. A happy family.

What were they now? Blind, divorced, dead.

Carrie broke down and cried, this time with tears.

 

He took the steps two at a time. Things were moving. He’d just left Dayna’s house for the second time that morning and, after they’d pushed her as far as they dare, Dennis parted company with Al. Al, together with Chris, was off to make initial contact with the boy’s parents. He’d left it with Jess to organise the details.