Someone Else's Son (27 page)

He kicked off his shoes and shoved them in the walk-in cupboard. His mother would go spare if he wore them in the house. ‘You’re bringing other people’s dirt inside. Why would I want that?’ Max, if he was honest, found it difficult to call the place home.

He stopped and listened. Martha would have left by now. His mother – well, she could be anywhere from New York to Selfridges or her office at the television station. He didn’t really care. Seeing her would only remind him how much of a freak he was and, while he was glad that it had brought him closer to Dayna, he didn’t want to be different. No one did, did they? Least of all a teenager like him who’d struck unusual in the looks department. He took the stairs two at a time, thankful at least that his scrawny legs allowed him to get to his room quickly.

‘Max? Is that you?’ It was shrill, commanding and made him freeze on the landing.

‘Yep,’ he replied.

‘Come here a minute.’ If he didn’t go, she’d only come to his room.

‘What, Mum?’ He ran back downstairs. Surprising himself, Max caught his breath when he saw her. He thought she looked beautiful today. He couldn’t recall ever thinking that before. What had Dayna’s kiss done to him? His mother was in her study, sitting at her desk, some website or other on her monitor, her brown leather briefcase spilling out papers at her feet. Her hair cast a golden glow around her face and her lips seemed shiny and new, the bow of their smile setting something off in his heart that took him back. Way back to when things were good.

She smiled. ‘I just wanted to say hi. See how you are. Sit down.’ She pointed to the reclining chair the other side of the room. Max moved a mohair throw before sitting, praying that his jeans were clean. He’d get it in the neck if he left grime on the leather. ‘How are things?’

Oh God, he thought. It was one of those catch-up guilt conversations, more of an interview than mother and son having a chat. He couldn’t even recall the last time he’d actually seen her – maybe briefly this morning, out of the window perhaps, or maybe last week when she had guests for dinner. Yes, that was it. The house had been filled with raucous old men spouting off about Viagra and Polo. They’d put on some dreadful pop music way past midnight. Max couldn’t stand it. He’d thrown on some clothes and cycled over to his dad’s house. His old couch was way better than listening to his mother living it up all night with her stupid rich friends.

‘Max?’

‘Yeah. Things are all right.’

‘How’s your new school?’

He heard the tension in her voice as she mentioned the place that had caused so much trouble between them.
Carrie Kent’s son goes to Milton Park
. Oh yeah, he loved it.

‘It’s great.’

‘Are you learning lots?’ His mother crossed her legs the other way. She was wearing a bright pink skirt and a paler pink blouse. He’d seen her on telly in that outfit. She was really pretty, he had to admit. A couple of lads from Denningham had told him ‘they would’ when referring to her. It had made him want to die and kill them in equal measure.

‘Yeah. Lots.’

Carrie sighed. She pulled a sorrowful face, one filled with remorse, Max thought, because she wasn’t getting anything out of him. Not like those poor suckers she strung up on her show.

‘And what about friends? Have you made some new ones?’

Max straightened. Did she know about Dayna? He stared into her eyes. They chilled him, but even more so now she had mentioned this. He shrugged.

‘You must miss your old chums,’ she said. Now he knew where this was going.

‘They were tossers.’

‘Oh, Max . . .’ Carrie leant forward. At last, she had got something out of him, something to build on. He knew the way she worked. ‘How about I talk to the head back at Denningham? It shouldn’t be you who had to leave if there were problems.’

‘Mum, it’s OK. I like it at Milton.’ He swallowed, praying she couldn’t read him too well. ‘There are plenty of nice kids there and the lessons are cool. Stop worrying. I’ll take my GCSEs next summer and then think about A levels. Perhaps go to college.’ He could already tell by his mother’s face that she wasn’t buying it.

‘God, Maxie, I didn’t bring you into this world to mix with chavs and pot smokers. Heaven knows, I see enough low-life scum on my show without having you caught up in it. Those places are a breeding ground for drugs, alcohol, violence. Before you know it, you’ll be in trouble with the police or have some girl preg—’

‘Stop!’ Max stood. His mother stiffened, not recoiling exactly, she’d never do that, but she was clearly surprised by his outburst. ‘I can look after myself, Mum.’ He was calmer now. ‘Nothing’s going to happen to me.’ He thought he saw the gloss of a tear in her eye.

‘Fine,’ she said, swivelling her chair round to face the computer again. ‘I just want you to be happy.’

There was something in the way she said it that made a small part of Max believe her; a little bit of love resonating in her words that brushed close to his heart. He plodded upstairs to shut himself away. Was it, he wondered, all because of Dayna? Was he, because of the kiss, a little less numb now, even though he’d tried not to be? He picked up a Sharpie marker and hurled himself on to his bed. He pushed up his left sleeve and wrote
Dayna
all over his arm.

‘She knew him, Leah.’ Carrie couldn’t feel the chair beneath her. The nerves in her body had shut down. ‘That girl Dayna knew Max. She probably knew more about him than I did.’

‘That’s not true.’ Leah had got the whisky out. She sloshed more into their tumblers. Neither of them felt in the least bit drunk even after several shots.

‘She said no one had liked them.’ Carrie tipped her face to the ceiling. The tear escaped anyway. ‘No one
liked
us,’ she repeated. ‘Was that “us” in the
us
sense, you know, like they were together, or “us” as in they were just the unfortunate sods who got picked on?’

‘Stop analysing, Carrie. You’ll drive yourself mad.’

‘My son was stabbed.’ Carrie worked out each syllable. She sipped whisky. ‘I will analyse what the fuck I like.’ She knocked the rest of the drink back. Her throat seared.

‘You’re reading between the lines, that’s all, and I’m worried for you. It was good that she was his friend, surely.’ Leah shifted closer on the sofa.

‘You didn’t see her.’

‘No.’ Leah tightened the cap on the bottle of bourbon and set it on the table. ‘But it wouldn’t have made a difference if I had.’

‘You’re not getting this, Leah. She said no one liked them. Them. Them bloody them. And I didn’t know.’ Carrie reached for the whisky but Leah intercepted. Carrie fell sideways on to her. The sobs were bitter, unreal, saturated with anger. ‘This doesn’t happen to
me
!’

Carrie felt the gentle touch of Leah’s fingers stroking her head, her shoulders, her neck, until, somehow, she slept away one more hour of her life.

 

‘Detective Masters, this girl needs talking to.’ Composure had come at a price. Lying prone across Leah’s legs, accepting comfort, allowing the whisky to wash through her, Carrie had woken with a bad headache. She didn’t care. In fact, she welcomed the pain between her temples. Her phone beeped. The battery was running low.

‘She’s been interviewed, Carrie. Twice.’

‘And?’

‘She doesn’t know who did it.’

‘For fuck’s sake . . .’ There were no more words. Nothing would ever be the same again. She wasn’t Carrie Kent any more. She was the woman whose son was stabbed. Just like all the rest.

‘Look,’ Masters said. ‘Why don’t you and Max’s father come down to the station in the morning and I’ll update you on progress. I’ll be here from eight.’

‘Progress?’ Carrie whispered. Progress, he’d said. That was a positive word, as if they’d found something. She couldn’t stand to ask what. She wanted that little bit of hope, that little bit of progress to carry her through the dark hours of the night. ‘OK,’ she replied and hung up.

 

Leah drove. ‘I don’t care,’ she said. ‘I’m your friend. I’ll be here as long as it takes.’ She’d stayed the night, insisting that Carrie step into the shower before they left for the police station the next morning. She had set out some clothes for her, just regular Sunday stuff – an attempt at normality way before it was due – and borrowed something from Carrie’s vast wardrobe for herself.

While Carrie was drying, Leah prepared some food. She cut up some fruit and made toast. Neither of them wanted it but ate a little anyway. Leah poured coffee. ‘Do you think Brody will turn up?’

Carrie shrugged. ‘I left a message. What more can I do? He has that woman to ferry him about. Just because our son is dead doesn’t mean we’re best buddies again.’

‘Carrie, don’t get hung up on what Dennis said. Progress can mean all sorts of things. We’re used to dealing with the police, so don’t—’

‘It’s Max, Leah.
Max
.’ Carrie dragged her hair back and secured it with a band. She had no make-up on. Best that way, Leah thought. She didn’t want her to be any more recognisable than she already was. ‘Not some
Reality Check
trash no-hoper.’

They stared at each other.
That’s the difference between us
. Leah shook her head. That’s why you’re in the limelight, the one scissoring open the scars of strangers, of criminals, of victims, of people who are so desperate and hopeless that they have nowhere else to turn; the one exposing raw wounds on live television every week. Leah couldn’t possibly think of the people they had on the show as trash. Trash was rubbish. Trash was to be got rid of. Trash was stuff nobody wanted or had a use for any more. However grim or unscrupulous or morally askew the families were that they lined up on stage, each had a story to tell and somehow, after Carrie had got their stories out, one or two of them made it with the help of the show’s aftercare team. As far as Leah was concerned, that made it all worthwhile.

The roads were clear. Leah drove out of Hampstead and headed west. Remnants of a ferocious Saturday night littered the streets – bottles, takeaway cartons, cans, an occasional group of lads leaning on railings, smoking, one or two girls in short skirts and heels stepping out of an unknown boy’s flat into the bright morning light of Sunday.

‘Thanks, Leah. For sticking with me.’ Carrie touched Leah’s hand as it pulled through the gears. ‘Not just now, but you know, forever.’

Leah glanced across. She hardly recognised the woman she had known since university. ‘You’ll get through this. Not yet. But in time, you will.’

After they’d parked at the police station, as they were walking up to the entrance, Leah’s heart clenched as she saw Carrie mouthing the word progress over and over. As on
Reality Check
, all anyone ever wanted was a bit of hope.

 

Brody never usually tripped, but he stumbled up the steps to the police station and Fiona had no chance of catching him. He went down, his hands splaying out for unseen ground, his head hitting the sharp edge of concrete. Fiona squealed and lunged at him, turning his head as he lay there, on his side, so that she could see what damage had been done.

‘Oh God, you’re bleeding.’ She reached into her bag and pulled out a packet of tissues. ‘Don’t move. I’m so sorry, Brody. I wasn’t thinking—’

‘It’s not your fault that I can’t fucking see anything.’

Fiona frowned. ‘But it’s my job to keep you out of trouble.’

‘No. It’s your job to get me out of it.’

Fiona kept quiet. The cut was jagged and lined with grit. She pondered what he’d said in the short time it took to dab the wound. ‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated.

‘I wasn’t . . . looking where I was going.’ Brody’s voice was deadly serious, his words slow and measured. Fiona dabbed at his red-streaked temple. They both knew he wasn’t just talking about the fall.

‘I think it needs water. Antiseptic.’ She tugged on Brody’s arm, a signal that he should stand. He grimaced and rubbed his knees.

‘I’m getting old,’ he remarked, groaning and straightening his back. At forty-six, Fiona didn’t think he looked old. She wished she could hold a mirror for him to see his face – the way his eyes stared straight ahead no matter what he was doing. She sometimes watched his mouth as he worked – his lips curling and thinning with concentration – and her own eyes widened as she shocked herself by wondering who had kissed them last.

‘Wait,’ she said, folding another clean tissue. ‘Hold this here.’ She wanted to take all his pain away. She knew she couldn’t.

Inside the station they were taken to an interview room. Coffee was brought in and set on the large round table. There was a plate of biscuits. As if they would want to eat, Fiona thought.

‘It’s grim in here.’ Brody refused to sit but rather paced the square room while they waited for DCI Masters.

And your flat’s not? Fiona thought to herself. She knew he’d have an impression of the room just by the click of his heels and the residual stink of overnight antiseptic sloshed around by cleaners. ‘It’s depressing.’ She went up to him. Blood was seeping through the tissue, but he had refused further help. ‘Want to sit down? There’s coffee.’

‘Nope.’ Brody was drawn to the window. There were bars across it. ‘They bring criminals in here,’ he commented. ‘To question them.’ He’d got the place to a T.

‘I think so, yes.’

Suddenly, Brody turned. His teeth flashed at Fiona, although not through a smile. ‘We’re the criminals,’ he said. ‘Carrie and I, for letting this happen.’ He reached out, as if to grab her shoulders, but stopped. Before she could reply, the door opened and they weren’t alone.

‘It’s Carrie and another woman. There are two detectives,’ Fiona whispered to Brody. She guided him up to the group but he shrugged her away.

‘What happened to you?’ Carrie squinted at Brody’s face and pulled out a chair opposite him. He didn’t reply. Carrie’s friend, the woman introduced as Leah, sat beside her. No one spoke until DCI Masters broke the silence.