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I’m watching her, the splay of her features. ‘His dad? Steve. Not a reader?’

Carla lets loose a squawk. ‘No. He says it’s a waste of time. He used to go on and on about it. Used to call Dylan a nerd.’

I nod, like that’s a perfectly normal thing to say to your child. A quick side-glance at Aden. Can see, in the frown lines that have formed on his forehead, he’s thinking the same thing as me: that a boy will do a lot to be respected by his father. Maybe even carry a gun, so that he can be a man. Just like Daddy. ‘So, you said things are different for Steve? How do you mean?’

She looks up, spears me with a spotlight glare, flecks of doubt in her eyes. I can see her working it out, how much she is safe to say. ‘He . . . he doesn’t often come to the hospital.’ Words careful, a step on unsteady ground.

I nod slowly. ‘It’s tough, I guess. Especially for men. I don’t think they handle things the same way we do.’

A lightness creeps over her features, the relief of speaking English in the centre of Beijing and hearing familiar words, the knowledge that you are understood. ‘That’s the thing – he can’t cope with it. Doesn’t like to see Dylan like that. So he’s got nothing else to do but get into all of this legal stuff. He thinks it will help.’ Shakes her head. ‘I don’t know. I just . . . how? That’s what I want to know. We’ve been through it once, with the IPCC, all that. How is this going to be any different? And if it is, so what? I don’t know if he’s thinking we’ll get some money – you know, make things a bit easier.’ She waves her hand around the living room. ‘I mean, we’re not exactly living in the lap of luxury here. But, thing is, I just don’t care. All I mind about is taking care of my kids. And that’s the thing – that’s what Steve doesn’t seem to get. We’ve still got four kids. Four. Not three. Our boy is still here, still in that hospital bed. Even if his own father won’t admit it.’ She is crying now, tears spilling down her pale cheeks. ‘Do you know what he said to me? He said it would be better if he’d died. That Dylan would be better off dead.’

THE WORDS SEEMED
to bounce off the walls, hanging in the air. They settled on Aden, their implications digging roots under his skin, sparking with electricity. He could feel Charlie’s glance at him, and from the corner of his eye could see her eyebrows shooting towards her hairline. Then Charlie leaned closer to Carla Lowe, looked like she wanted to reach out, take her hand, but couldn’t quite make herself do it, so her fingers danced an uncomfortable beat on the tops of her knees.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Charlie offered.

Aden watched Carla Lowe, feeling as if his entire body was tingling. Studied the woman, a mother who had lost her child and yet not lost him. So she cared for him and tended him like it would make some kind of a difference. He studied her, thinking about her husband and his history, a rage that always seemed to sit just beneath the surface, barely contained. Thought of the man walking the corridors of Mount Pleasant Hospital, gun in hand. Again and again and again. Almost like he was building himself up to something, steeling himself for something that he had to do, but couldn’t quite face. Not yet.

Carla Lowe nodded, swiped at her nose with the back of her hand. ‘Ta. I think, the thing is, with Steve, it’s guilt, I suppose.’

‘Guilt?’ asked Charlie.

‘Steve and Dylan – I mean, they weren’t close. Dylan, he’s a quiet boy. Serious. Steve used to call him a mamma’s boy. And he is. He is my boy.’ Carla wiped roughly at the tears, pulling herself upright, used to dealing with the hardest knocks that life could throw at a person and then pulling herself back up again. ‘Steve, see, he wasn’t around much. We’d split, were apart for about a year. Just weren’t gettin’ on. So the kids, they didn’t see that much of him.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Steve won’t talk about it, but I think he was seeing someone else, while we were split. Spent all his time with her. The kids were gutted. And Dylan wanted so badly to impress him. Well, that’s what kids are, innit? Always want their mam and dad to be proud of them.’

Was that it? Was that what led a good kid to pick up a gun, run amok? The promise of being just a little bit more like his father, with his criminal history, his fuck-society anger? Only for this kid, it had gone wrong.

‘So . . .’ Aden had interrupted something – some conversation that he hadn’t caught – he could tell by the surprise in the women’s faces. He pushed on. ‘Your husband. Do you think . . . I mean, have you ever worried that he might hurt Dylan?’

It was like a sudden freeze, the change in the room. Carla Lowe sat up, leaning away from him, frowning heavily. ‘No. Why?’ There was an edge to her voice, a warning to tread no further.

Aden ignored it. ‘Am I right in thinking that your husband has access to guns?’

‘What the hell has that got to do with anything?’ Carla was looking at him differently now, a full-on stare, and he could see the wheels turning behind her eyes, the suspicion that she might not have been told the truth. ‘Why are you asking this?’

‘Oh, it’s nothing, Carla . . .’ Charlie glared at Aden, turning back to Carla Lowe with a smile.

‘But I’m correct in thinking that Steve has been reported as saying he could get access to his parents’ weapons?’

Carla had folded in on herself now, her arms tight across her chest, face folded into a heavy frown. ‘Steve hardly ever sees his parents. And, anyway, I don’t understand why . . .’

Charlie was talking, was saying something to him, in that brittle, bright voice that she did when she was trying to be soothing. Aden stared at her blankly, wondering who the fuck Dave was. Then pushed himself to his feet.

‘We’d better be going.’

They looked at him, startled, like he had lost his mind: Charlie; Carla, still scowling; the boy in the photographs, with his entire life ahead of him.

‘He’s right.’ Charlie stood up, smiling, like it was no big deal. Everything fine here, nothing to see. ‘I’m so sorry, Carla, but we have a meeting this afternoon. Thank you so much for sitting down with us.’ She sounded sincere.

Carla looked at Aden, studying the arms that had somehow crossed themselves around his waist, the sunglasses that must have made him look like a prick. And he found himself wishing that the ground would open up beneath him.

She pushed herself up from the sofa, an awkward movement, her spaghetti-strap top shifting, riding up across her waist to reveal protruding ribs. Behind him, Aden heard Charlie gasp. He looked at her, sharply, thinking they were busted, but she wasn’t looking at him; was looking at Carla, her gaze shifting from her side to her face, and back again. Carla flushed, a darker red than you would have thought it possible for her pale skin to go, tugged quickly on her top.

And then they stood there, in an unsteady limbo in which it seemed to Aden a world of conversation was being conducted that he just couldn’t hear. Charlie still wasn’t looking at him, was still staring at Carla, who was staring back. Her eyes pleading.

‘I . . .’

He didn’t know what Charlie was going to say, but she never got a chance, because Carla was stepping forward and his guard was up, his heart racing as Carla’s hands snaked out towards Charlie. Aden was about to move, about to do something stupid, when he saw Carla take hold of Charlie’s hand, gripping it tight. They still weren’t speaking, Carla clutching onto Charlie like she would fall, with a slight shaking of her head.

Then Carla said, ‘Please.’

Charlie’s face was shifting, a storm of emotions. ‘Carla, I . . .’

‘You can’t. Please. Don’t say anything. He’s gone. I kicked him out after it. But if you write about it, and Steve sees it . . . he’ll kill me.’ Then the colour drained from Carla’s face, the sudden sinking realisation of what it was she had done. ‘Oh my God, I shouldn’t have said . . . The things I told you, I didn’t think . . . He’s going to kill me.’

A long silence, broken only by the shriek of children playing.

‘Look. It’s okay,’ Charlie said, eventually. ‘It’s going to be okay. I promise.’

They didn’t say anything else, not as they stepped across the bike on the front step, or as they heard the door closing behind them and the muffled sound of crying. They didn’t say a word until they slid into the car, the air full of a breathless heat.

‘Did you see it?’ Charlie had turned to him, her eyebrows pulled up tight together.

‘What?’

She gestured to her stomach. ‘The bruise.’ Formed her small hand up into a fist. ‘It was . . . bad. Someone had punched Carla in the stomach.’

Aden sat, could feel the seat fabric burning through his shirt back, a ring of sweat beginning to build around the nape of his neck. The pressure of it all sitting in his belly. This woman, this house, this boy – and he wanted to feel guilty, but even that was more than was allowed to him, because they weren’t his gunshots. And he’d come here, trying to piece it together, trying to understand this boy who had shifted the axis of his world, trying to round out the bitty recollections, the newspaper stories, all of the bits that added up together to mean nothing. And what he had got was a shrine to an angel child; his bedraggled mother her husband’s punching bag; and no answers, no cipher that could unravel the pieces of that night. Just more heaviness, more grief, when there was already so much sitting on his chest that it seemed sometimes like it was hard to breathe.

‘Do you think it was him? Steve Lowe. In the hospital,’ Aden asked Charlie.

‘Well, you clearly do. Undercover much?’ Charlie grinned.

‘Yeah, I . . . Sorry. But it would make sense, wouldn’t it? What with everything?’

Charlie sighed, started the engine. ‘I don’t know, Ade. They’re a family in a lot of pain. I mean, to have your son in a persistent vegetative state for almost a year . . .’

Then it came, a sudden spurt of anger. ‘Yeah. Well, perhaps they should have been more careful not to raise a kid who’ll try to kill police officers.’

Charlie had leaned back in the driver’s seat, pulled so far away that her head was resting against the driver’s side-window, and he could see it – that change in her face as she vanished behind a locked door. ‘I need to get back.’

THE RESTAURANT WAS
full, thrumming with voices. Faux-grapevines gathered dust on the walls, plump plastic grapes peeking from between the green. A party had set up at a table, a ten-seater that lined the opposite wall, a birthday banner strung on the wall behind them, all raucous laughs, roaring voices. Imogen watched them; she was trying to be subtle, but they were loud, seemed like they were expecting an audience. The birthday girl sat at the centre of the crowd, marked out by a sash, a pink crown. She was laughing, her face flushed with the heat and the alcohol.

And then there was their table. They had been seated by the window – ostensibly the best table in the house, but today the sunlight had been pouring in, superheating the cutlery, the leather-backed chairs. The window gave way to a flawless blue bay, tumbling cliffs slowly being eaten away by ravenous waves.

Imogen’s mother stared at the party, drumming her fingernails against the white linen tablecloth. Her lips had pursed up, the crimson pout impatient.

‘Just ignore them.’ Her father wasn’t looking at his wife, was focusing instead on his plate, where a deep-red blood had begun to seep from his ribeye. He handled the steak knife like a surgeon – three careful, neat cuts – skewering the square of meat with his fork, gave a little nod of satisfaction and took a wide bite.

Imogen looked down. Studied her plate.

It was her parents’ anniversary. The table had been booked weeks ago. But in spite of this, Imogen hadn’t wanted to come. An anniversary party, modest though this one was, didn’t seem appropriate, what with Amy in hospital, and Mara not here. She had tried to say it, had suggested to her mother – careful, like trying to stroke a tiger – that they put it off for a week or so, just until Amy was out. That way it would be a double celebration. Her mother had waved her away. Nonsense! Amy’s going to be fine. She’ll be out soon. So, then, we could wait . . .? Her mother had blown out a sigh, her face falling, the universal sign of a sulk on the horizon. I’ve booked the table, Imogen. It’s all arranged. And so Imogen had capitulated, as she so often did.

The birthday girl let out a shriek of laughter, raising her glass high into the air.

‘But I mean,’ her mother sighed deeply. ‘Really. Is there any need to be so loud?’ She shook her head, earrings clattering, took a delicate bite of her salad.

A bulbous silence had settled over the table, punctured only by the sounds of cutlery scraping against china, the squawks of laughter from the birthday party. Imogen glanced at Dave. He was wearing a far-off gaze, his shoulders drawn up, tie twisted tight at his neck like a noose.

He didn’t look at her.

She had been getting ready, had been trying not to think about hospitals and Amy and gunmen. She would wear her black jacket tonight. It was a little workish, but in truth nothing else was clean, and she was tired and just wanted to get dinner over with. Had run down the stairs barefoot, and had clearly been quieter than she had expected. Pushed open the door of her study. For a moment, when she had seen Dave standing there, she had thought they were being burgled. That he was an intruder about to murder her. Would later wonder at her vivid imagination, would put it down to work, the stories that she heard. She had caught herself at the doorway, her heart thudding. ‘Dave. I didn’t . . .’ Only then had she thought to wonder what he was doing there. It was her study. It was out of bounds. They had come to the agreement early on. After all, her client work was confidential – there had to be some limits. She had looked at him, looked at his hands, the sheaf of papers gripped tight enough to tear.

‘What are you doing?’

‘You lied.’

Imogen had frozen, pierced to the spot. ‘I . . . what?’