Something Might Happen (14 page)

I decide to let this go.

I told him, I say. I told him to go straight home and be with Lennie—

And he did?

He did, I tell Lacey. He waited all night. And then he called me.

* * *

After school Jordan and I walk Fletcher across the Common towards Blackshore. On our left, the golf course, on the right,
dull-faced cattle chomping lippily on gorse.

You know what it means when the cows lie down? Jordan asks me. That it’s going to rain!

Certainly, the air is damp and clotted, the sky tight with swollen clouds moving too fast across it.

Once we’ve passed the golf course we let Fletcher off. He’s a dog of habit and he knows exactly what to do. He sits and waits
to be unclipped and then he soars.

Good dog! Jordan shouts and Fletcher darts away, ears flat, belly low to the ground. He isn’t allowed into the cow field but
we let him scoot and dodge over the long-grassed Common which stretches as far as the coastal path on one side and to the
fishing shacks and chandlers of Blackshore on the other.

It’s wonderful to see Fletcher run—same as I think it might be to fly a kestrel or hawk. It makes me feel smaller, safer,
a speck on the ground.

We continue on up the lane, towards the water tower. In the distance, a tractor putters and stops, then putters again. Jordan
is asking me whether, if a child stole some money from his parents when he was a child, and then the parents found out, they
could sue him.

But they wouldn’t want to, I tell him. Mums and dads never want to take their kids to court—

Yes, he says, dancing backwards impatiently along the asphalt road in front of me. But that’s not what I mean—I
mean if the parents found out when the child was a grownup—would they punish him then?

I laugh.

But sweetheart, he’d still be their child. When your child grows up you go on loving them just the same, however old or grown
up they are—

But Jordan isn’t satisfied.

Wouldn’t they at least be cross? he wants to know.

Well, maybe, I say. But when a child does something bad like take money, usually his mum or dad just want to find out what’s
wrong and why he did it. That’s more important than punishing him, you see.

Jordan thinks about this.

The cows are following us along the line of the hedge. Fletcher’s nowhere in sight.

But has it ever happened, he insists, that a mum or dad takes their child to court when they’re grown up?

He snaps off a long stalk of cow parsley and waves it like a sword. Oh look, Mummy! he says, because Fletcher has found another
dog. Back on the road, next to the damp verge, he is sniffing the rear end of a lean, shabby, black and tan animal. Both dogs
very still, alert, erect, concentrating.

I know whose dog that is, I tell Jordan—and I look around for Darren Sims. Except I can’t see him. Seconds later, he climbs
out of the ditch.

Hiya, he says.

Hi, I say, hoping we can move on quickly. I don’t really want to get stuck with Darren.

You didn’t see me there, did you?

No, I tell him.

Did you come out of the ditch? Jordan asks, staring at him in frank and open amazement.

Yeah, he says. You see down there?—he indicates down behind the hawthorn tree that grows on a steep slope beyond the ditch.
Jordan nods and stares.

Well, I found something.

What? says Jordan. What?

Want to come and have a look?

Yes, says Jordan immediately, but I pull him to me.

Not today, Darren, I say. We have to get back.

Oh, Mummy, says Jordan.

Another time maybe, I say. Or you could just tell us what you found?

Darren grins at me. His neck is spotty and his Adam’s apple sticks out too much.

I’m keeping it to myself, he says, still smiling. No one else will find it, that’s for sure.

Jordan starts to move towards the ditch, but I grab his sweatshirt. The sky is darkening.

Another day, OK? I say and take a step back towards home. Darren’s dog comes swaying and sauntering up, looking depressed.
Fletcher has already disappeared, back into the furthest smells of the Common.

Darren doesn’t move.

That dog of yours, he says. Coming along nicely isn’t he? How old is he now, then?

Two and a half, says Jordan proudly.

Two and a half? says Darren. Really? I’d have had him down as younger. Runs around a lot, doesn’t he?

When he was a puppy, Jordan says, he fitted in my mum’s handbag.

Inexplicably Darren’s face falls.

He doesn’t bite, does he? he says.

No-o, says Jordan, kicking grit on the road, losing interest.

Darren looks at me.

Them dogs the police had, he says. Did you get a look at them? They weren’t German Sheppers, I don’t know what they were,
even me nan didn’t know—did you see the teeth on them?

Which dogs, I say, when?

All last week, Darren says. Days and days. Dogs and dogs, sniffin’ all around the pier and whatnot.

Maybe they were bloodhounds, Jordan offers.

Something occurs to me and I bite my lip.

Darren, I say carefully, you do know, don’t you? About Lennie? Mrs Daniels—what happened?

He looks hurt.

Of course, he says slowly. Of course I do. It’s all my mum and my nan want to talk about. All that business.

Well then, I say, police often bring in dogs. They’re just going over that area in detail I would imagine, it’s what they
have to do.

Doing their job, says Darren.

Exactly.

She was going to give me a job you know, he says then.

I look at him.

Who was?

Her. Mrs Daniels.

Really?

Darren looks pleased with himself.

Yeah, she was. Sweeping and that. And learning to make them things of hers.

She said that?

Yeah. She promised. Had me round and gave me a Coke. She promised. Won’t happen now, though.

No, I tell him, it won’t.

A shame, isn’t it? he says. It would have been good.

It would, I agree.

And he says goodbye and we watch his long body and the skulkier one of the dog move slowly up the hill towards the golf course.

Jordan skips along beside me in silence.

I wonder what Darren found, he says.

Yes. I wonder.

Shall we go back and have a look?

No. Not now.

Mummy, what sort of dog is Darren’s dog?

Mongrel, I suppose, I say.

No! says Jordan. Mixed breed. You don’t say mongrel.

Oh, I agree. Right.

Yeah, says Jordan, it’s like Mixed Race. And Special Needs.

He turns to look at me.

Is Darren Special Needs?

* * *

Alex stops by the clinic just as I’m locking up and putting the rubbish out in Dene Walk. Suddenly he’s there in front of
me, next to the scrubby buddleia that springs out from the cracked cement of the wall.

What is it? I say. What’s happening? Are you OK?

They’re having a fire practice, he says. At The Angel. Loads of old people lined up in the car park.

Oh, I say.

Laugh, then, he says.

Why?

Because it’s funny. You should have seen them.

What is it? I ask him.

What do you mean what is it?

Why’re you in such a weird mood? I say.

I’m not, he says, I’m great. Why? Do I always have to be down and suicidal?

No, I say, but I don’t like the look in his eyes, a glitteriness that means trouble.

I mean it, he says when he sees me looking at him, I thought I’d just drop by and say hello.

I say nothing, squash the garbage bag down into the dustbin and try to get the lid to shut. A smell of decay mixes with the
whiff of setting lotion and cigarette smoke from the hairdresser’s across the alleyway. Suzanne Hair Fashions is open late
on Wednesdays. Their new beautician smokes all the time. She’s probably out in the yard right now, puffing away.

I shiver because I’ve taken off my whites but not put my cardigan back on.

I’ve got to lock up, I tell him. Fine, he says and follows me in. He sits down on the edge of the reception desk, on a bunch
of papers—a whole load of cheques and order forms that Nicky who comes in on Tuesdays has left for me to sign. I pull the
papers out from underneath him. He doesn’t help me. Then I go and get my cardigan off the hanger.

What is it, Al? I say again. Please tell me.

He laughs. I told you, nothing’s wrong, I’m great. I just had this hankering to see you alone, that’s all. Anything wrong
with that?

I sigh. I’m tired and I want to get home.

I can’t play games, I say, switching the answerphone on and starting to shut down the computer. I’m tired.

I don’t know what you mean, he says. What games?

How are the boys anyway? I ask, ignoring him. Are they OK?

I believe so, he says. They’re round at your place actually.

Oh?

Mick said he’d feed them.

And does he know where you are right now?

Alex laughs.

No, he doesn’t actually.

As I go into the next room to get my bag, he says, I loved her, you know.

What? I call out. Even though I heard him perfectly. I pick my bag up off the floor and stand there, waiting.

I loved her, he says. It may not always have looked that way, but I did.

I know you did, I tell him more gently as I come back in. I move the appointment book out of the way, stack sets of notes
on top of the cabinet for filing. I put a hand on his wrist.

You don’t have to tell me that, Al, I say.

But he’s not listening.

They think I killed her, he says.

I stare at him.

No they don’t. Don’t be so ridiculous—

Oh yes, he says, very softly this time. Oh Tess, I mean it, they do.

No—

I mean it. Would I lie about something like that?

They? Who’s they?

Lacey. Lacey does.

But, I say, suddenly slow and stupid, I thought you liked Lacey?

He thinks I did it. He thinks I cut up my wife. He thinks I took her heart out and went and hid it somewhere just for fun.

I sit down. He looks at me.

You’ve got it wrong, I tell him. There’s no way Lacey would think that.

Whatever, Alex says, suddenly sour. You should know.

What do you mean?

He doesn’t reply.

What’s that supposed to mean? I say again.

He says nothing.

I just—don’t—believe, I tell him, that he would think that.

I can see it all over his face, says Alex. All the time, whenever he talks to me.

Oh, I say, relaxing a little. So he’s never actually said anything?

Alex folds his arms and closes his eyes.

He doesn’t have to.

Oh for God’s sake, you’re being ridiculous, I tell him. I’m sorry but you are.

Don’t you think you look ridiculous, he says, going round with him all the time.

I pull my cardigan on.

Everyone knows it, he says. You’ve been seen.

Oh don’t be so stupid, I tell him.

I said you’ve been seen.

So, yes, I say, OK. I know him. We all do—he’s been here in our lives for days. It’s his job—to look after you and the boys.

Ah, says Alex, but the word is, he only sticks around because of you.

My heart jumps.

Well, I say, the word’s wrong. In fact all he wants to do is talk to me about you.

That’s what he says?

Alex smiles. I ignore him.

Who the hell’s saying this anyway? I ask him. Who’s this everyone?

Who do you think? he says. The whole fucking town.

I suddenly feel sorry for him—for his tired face, his red eyes. I go over and touch his arm.

Al, I say, don’t do this. Please. You don’t mean it. I know you don’t. Please, Alex.

He shrinks from my touch, flexes his hands and stares at them.

You look terrible, I say. What is it? Aren’t you sleeping?

I love you, he says then.

No, I say steadily. You don’t.

I can’t stop thinking about you. All the time, when I should be thinking about this.

Oh Al, you know that’s not true.

It is. I do. I love you. If she hadn’t—if she wasn’t gone—I’d still feel it and I might still tell you.

No you wouldn’t. It’s just all of this. You’re confused. You said you loved her just now.

Not in this way.

He puts out his hand but I pull away from him.

Don’t tell me. Please. I don’t want to hear about it.

He makes a funny sound then, half of pain, half of excitement, and he pushes up the sleeve of my cardigan and lays his fingers
on my bare arm.

I never wanted to hurt you, he whispers.

But you haven’t, I reply. I don’t know what you mean, Al. You haven’t hurt anyone.

EVERYONE’S BEHAVIOUR HAS ALTERED FOR THE WORSE
.

At school, Jordan has been lashing out at other kids, even the bigger ones. He punched and kicked Debbie Suffling who, though
tall and strong-looking, actually suffers from a blood condition that means she must not be hit.

Julie Edmunds, his teacher, sent Jordan straight to the head’s office where he sat stony-eyed and sullen and refusing to say
sorry. That’s what Julie tells us when we go in to see her—that it’s not the incident itself but his total lack of remorse
about it that she takes most seriously.

I’m sure he’s sorry, Mick tells her. He’s just too proud to say it.

We don’t encourage that sort of pride in this school,
Julie says. We try to encourage children to respect others and put the truth first.

And she eyes Liv’s buggy and I know what she’s thinking: what’s she doing with another baby at her age when she can’t even
control the ones she’s already got?

But it’s not just Jordan. Rosa, who’s loud and difficult at home but normally an angel at school—so good and conscientious
that she will literally sweat if she doesn’t get her homework done on time—has lost her pen, her PE kit and half of her books,
and been in trouble more than once for talking in assembly.

Our Rosa? Mick says. Talking in assembly?

Not only that, but her shoelaces are fraying, her shirt’s perpetually splattered with ink, her fingers are grubby and her
arms covered in strange itchy spots which she picks till they bleed.