The Faithless (18 page)

Now it had been used to kill this poor child’s little pet and, staring into the blood-stained carrier bag, Jack Callahan felt the rage boiling up inside him. The wicked, feral little bastard. That he was capable of something so heinous, so barbaric was unthinkable. Yet the knife was there, and the only person who could have taken it out of this house was James.

Young Tyrone was looking at him with the sad, soulful eyes of an honest boy, and Jack knew he was telling the truth. Where was the culprit though? He must have heard all this commotion. Jack called his name out loudly and, when the boy didn’t appear, he went into the front room. Lifting him bodily from where he was crouched on the sofa, he physically dragged him into the hallway.

‘Did you do this?
Did you?’

James was terrified and, for a few seconds, even Roy Brown
was almost sorry for the boy. Jack Callahan’s temper was legendary in their street – he didn’t go often but when he blew, he really lost it.

Snatching the dead kitten from Roy, Jack pushed the corpse into his grandson’s face, smearing him with blood and hair, all the time shouting, ‘You did this, didn’t you? You vicious little fucker . . .’

Pulling away roughly, James screamed, ‘It’s not fair!
I
wanted a kitten, that should have been
my
kitten! Not his bastard kitten . . . But no, I couldn’t have him, could I? Not me, I never get fucking anything off you bastards . . .’

The blow, when it landed, knocked James across the hallway and into the small table where they kept the phone. The table collapsed, and the phone was sent sprawling along with the boy, who was now attempting to cover his head, protect his skull from the rain of punches that was being administered by his granddad.

Eventually, Roy Brown stepped in and pulled Jack off, shocked at the severity of the beating. He could see that if it went on for much longer Jack would surely kill the child. The hallway was spattered with blood. Roy looked at Mary Callahan and, seeing the utter horror on her face, he wondered if he could have perhaps handled the whole situation better somehow.

Young Tyrone Brown was watching in morbid fascination, knowing this was wrong even though to him it felt right. His little cat Bullet had had its throat cut by James and he felt he should pay for that. Being too little and too young to fight James, he had gone to his granddad because he knew he was big enough to do what he couldn’t. He had loved his little cat, and he didn’t want to see it die like that. He started crying then, a high-pitched keening that seemed to jerk Mary Callahan to life.

‘Come here, child, come to me.’

But Tyrone had had enough, and he left the hallway sobbing, his granddad following him in a bewildered state, shocked at
the day’s events, and wondering if he had any hard stuff in the house.

Picking up the dead cat, Jack Callahan threw it at his now inert grandchild and said scathingly, ‘Clear this lot away. You’ll bury that little lad’s cat for him, and you’ll do it properly and with an apology, you rotten little fucker. The shame you’ve brought on this house today, you murdering little bastard. You’re your mother’s son all right.’

It wasn’t until much later when he went over the events again in his mind that it occurred to him that his wife had not once leapt to her grandson’s defence. That alone spoke volumes.

‘It was a fucking cat, Jonny. Anyone would think he’d murdered Mother Teresa the way they’re carrying on.’

Jonny had heard the story – it was all people were talking about. The school had got wind of it and had said that James Junior should see a psychiatrist. The general consensus was that the school was right; cutting a kitten’s throat wasn’t exactly a boyish prank for all Cynthia tried to make it out like that. It also seemed that her boy James was getting a name for himself as a weirdo, for want of a better word. The school had been concerned about him for a good while, and he knew that was what was really getting up Cynthia’s nose. She didn’t have any real interest in the children unless they were reflecting well on her – then she was proud, or at least acted proud. She played the part of an exemplary mother and housewife, but it was all a façade. Now this latest incident had brought out the mother lioness in her, and she was determined to make sure it was seen as a youthful indiscretion and no more. But even hardened criminals were shocked at the child’s antics. Cutting that poor kitten’s throat because he couldn’t have one of his own was seen as something sinister, not quite acceptable. Not for a nine year old anyway.

‘Still, Cynth, it’s a bit OTT don’t you think? Cutting its throat with a bread knife? Not exactly tit for tat, is it?’

Cynthia could feel the anger burning away inside her and she
held it in check. ‘I should have let him have the cat, I didn’t realise how much it meant to him.’

Jonny knew she was genuinely bewildered and believed that the reaction to James Junior’s antics was overboard. ‘Well, if you want my opinion, he needs a shrink now, before it’s too late.’

Cynthia laughed then. A harsh, derisory laugh. ‘Oh . . . hark at Doctor fucking Spock! What you know about kids I could write in block capitals on the back of a postage stamp. He’s nine, fucking nine and, like any nine year old, he overreacted . . .’

Jonny was laughing now, really laughing. ‘Overreacted? For fuck’s sake, Cynth, can you hear yourself? Use your loaf and let this die down. Get him help – that’s what normal people do for their kids.’

Cynthia knew that Jonny was trying to help not just her but James Junior too. But she couldn’t accept what he was saying; she felt strongly that the general consensus was way off base. He was a kid, and kids did stupid things. Somewhere deep inside her she knew she should be worried; it wasn’t because she believed it, but her common sense told her that when the opinion of the majority was against you, the chances were you were wrong. But he was a child, and children were cruel – how many times had she heard that expression? What was annoying her more than anything was that this man, who she actually loved in her own strange way, was also ridiculing her and calling into question her mothering skills. She knew she would never win any awards, but she prided herself on having the cleanest, best turned-out children anywhere.

She would not be criticised by
anyone
about
anything
– especially not where her kids were concerned. But what really rankled was Jonny talking about psychiatrists for her son, when his wife, her sister, was madder than a box of frogs. Not that she would ever point that out to him of course; she knew he blamed himself, and so he fucking should.

Celeste wandered around that big house like the Orphan of the Storm. She could barely leave the house these days, not that anyone pointed that out, of course, but there was a word for it – agoraphobia. Still, in all honesty, it made their lives easier and that suited her down to the ground. The only time Celeste left the house under her own steam was to go to Majorca and their house there, but even that was getting harder to achieve. He should leave her out there, let her enjoy the weather and the different surroundings.

Cynthia knew that she had to save this situation from getting out of hand, so she hid her true feelings and forced a smile on to her lovely face. ‘Well, not a lot I can do. You’ll be pleased to hear he’s going to see a shrink on Tuesday, the school’s insisting on it.’

Jonny felt the relief as a physical thing. Cynthia had to understand that
her
problems were not
his
problems, even though at times like this he felt he had to try and talk some sense into her. It wasn’t easy reasoning with Cynthia. She had a knack of sounding right all the time – he assumed that was because she believed with all her heart that she
was
right all the time.

‘Well then, darling, how about a drink?’

Cynthia smiled her assent, but the magic had gone out of the night and they both knew it. James Junior’s so-called escapade was having far-reaching repercussions, and both suspected that the shrink would not be the end of it.

Celeste was worried, but then that was nothing new. She was permanently worried these days. Since the night of Kevin Bryant’s death she had never been the same. Every time she closed her eyes she saw his face, every time she opened her eyes she saw his face. And it was a horrible face, twisted up in anger and agony. Over the years he had grown in size, until now, all these years later, he was like some kind of giant in her mind.

She crept around her house, her lovely big house that should have made her happy, half-expecting his ghost to be behind her, expecting at any moment a tap on her shoulder and his decaying, rotten hand to touch her.

She poured herself another glass of vodka and downed it in one gulp. Alcohol was the only thing that stopped her from hearing the whispers and the noises that she was convinced came from the grave, the grave of Kevin Bryant. A constant whispering sound, it was reminiscent of when she had been a kid on a school trip to St Paul’s Cathedral, and they had dutifully listened to the teacher in the Whispering Gallery, hearing the words travel around the structure, and all pretending to marvel at such a device in such an old building. She had not liked it in there with dead people everywhere you walked. So what if they were poets? They were still fucking dead and she was sure they would have much rather been buried in peace – somewhere a crowd of bored school kids wouldn’t be taking the piss out of their names, and sniggering about their lives.

She closed her eyes against the negative thoughts. She had read somewhere that you had to force negative thoughts from your mind and think positive. But think positive about what? What did you think about when there was nothing positive in your life? When your whole world was built on quicksand and could be snatched from you in a millisecond?

Her husband loved her, that was a positive she supposed, but he could be shot dead, stabbed, maimed or disappear at any given moment. She knew better than anyone that that was the kind of world they lived in. So it was hard to think positive about that. She had a nice home and a caring family, but then so did a lot of people, so that wasn’t really that big a positive when you analysed it properly. That was more of a human right, surely?

Celeste sighed heavily and looked at herself in her bedroom mirror. It was a large, very expensive mirror from France, and it made you look slimmer. But she knew it was just a trick of the glass so that, too, was built on a lie. Her whole life was built on lies and deceit, and she was powerless to do anything about it. She studied herself for a few moments. It was rare she ever looked at herself; she loathed what she was, what she had become. Outwardly she still looked OK. If she was on a bus – not that she ever got buses these days – she knew she would fit in with people’s general opinion of someone normal. They couldn’t see the blackness inside her, the rottenness that was at her core, and that bothered her. Really bothered her. It proved to her that you could never really trust anyone, because you couldn’t see inside of them. You couldn’t really ever know what was in their minds or, more importantly, their hearts.

Like James Junior killing that poor kitten. He looked like an angel that child, but he was filthy, putrid just like the rest of them. She was relieved now about her miscarriages, that she didn’t have any children. How would you ever know what they were really like? Imagine having a baby which grew up to be a monster, a killer? By then you already loved it, had made plans
for it, and then it turned around and kicked you and all your hard work right in the teeth.

Oh no, that wasn’t for her – that was for the likes of Cynthia. She had the strength to deal with things. Cynthia was the only person Celeste trusted. Cynthia would always look out for her, would always save her from danger. She was like a modern day Penthesilea, an Amazonian woman who could fight like a man, and think like a man. She could always depend on her, she knew that much. Like she would sort out little James, and steer him towards the right path.

Celeste was surprised to find herself in the kitchen, and wondered vaguely how she had got there. She opened the huge fridge and took out a chunk of cheese. She bit into it and savoured the strong cheddar taste, the saltiness on her tongue. Then, replacing it, she went to the countertop and poured herself another vodka. It occurred to her that she had not left the house for over a week, but she shrugged off the thought. Inside the house was bad enough, but it was nothing compared to the dangers on the streets.

She settled herself at the kitchen table and began to peruse the papers they had delivered every day. She looked for stories of death, pain, serial killers and genocide. These stories made her feel safe, made her feel that her take on the world was the true one. Even Spain, her beloved adopted country, wasn’t immune. It was filling up with gangsters and murderers, including Majorca where she had believed life was simpler and therefore better. The papers were full of it nowadays, all kinds of death and destruction, the whole world over.

Those facts, those stories she read, assured her that her thoughts were not wrong, that her life as it was could not be any other way. It was comforting to know that the world outside was just as she believed. That was the only positive thought she possessed, and she hung on to it like a dog with a bone.

Jimmy Tailor was understandably upset at his son’s behaviour and, what was worse, he didn’t know how to address it. He could see that the hiding had meant nothing to the boy. To compound these feelings of worthlessness, he was aware of the look of contempt for his family in the boy’s eyes too. It was a strange thing, but he really disliked his son now. Knowing he was capable of something so shocking and so heinous, and was not the least bit concerned about his actions, had shown Jimmy the true state of the boy’s mind. He knew that in his hands he was now holding a potential threat to society.