Humber Boy B (13 page)

“Show Ben the garden, love, while I finish the dinner.”

The garden, though maybe only twelve feet square, is like a patch of Eden. Each blade of grass is so green and lush that they look edible, and the fragrant border of so many flowers makes me ashamed of my bunch. Issi could pick fifty flowers in her own back yard. There’s a birdbath, a bench, everything so neat and perfect.

“Wow,” I say, and mean it.

“See, it’s not fish that I like, it’s this,” Leon points to the fences where a white flower is growing, covering the wood with delicate green leaves. “Gardening is my thing. Helps me relax.” He sips a beer and raises the can. “Along with this.”

It’s good to see him like this and I’m enjoying my beer too. It’s cool and not too strong, so though it makes me feel easy in my skin, I’m not going to get drunk.

“You’re doing well at the aquarium, Ben,” he says. “I’m really glad I took you on. I wasn’t sure, you know. For the boss, taking on someone from Community Service is just free labour, and he only comes down from Great Yarmouth once a month, so if there was a problem he wouldn’t be the one to deal with it. But it’s worked out well.”

He blushes, and I can see that though he planned to give this little speech it makes him feel awkward, so I sip more beer, say thanks, and then ask him some more about his garden. In the end, he gives me a tour of it, showing me all the plants and flowers, telling me about the soil, so in just twenty minutes I feel I know more about gardening than I ever learned when I was on the outdoor team at Glen Parva, and that was for sixteen months.

Finally, Leon sits on the bench, hands clasped on his knees and breathes deeply, looking at something in the corner of the plot, the sunniest spot. It’s a ceramic statue, knee-high, of a footballer. A pottery boy kicking a ball, and at his feet is a plastic-framed photograph of a boy who looks about ten or eleven, wearing a blue and white football strip, grinning widely despite the goofy teeth.

I don’t know Issi has joined us in the garden until she says, “That’s our boy.”

Leon clears his throat and looks at his shoes, but Issi comes beside me and grips my arm, gesturing to the photo with such a clear gaze of love and pain that I feel ill.

“Our Michael.”

Then she releases me, so quickly that I wonder if I imagined it, and claps her hands together, changing the heavy atmosphere with the command, “Lunch time!”

Chatter over lunch is surprisingly easy. We talk about the aquarium, how hard Leon works, how much it’s helped having me there. They tell me of their home, how they’ve lived here so long, how the neighbours came and went and had no decency. Finally there is a comfortable silence as we tuck into the beef and vegetables. I catch Issi watching me approvingly as I wolf down my third Yorkshire pudding.

“It’s nice to see someone enjoying their food. Michael had a good appetite too.”

“Issi… ” Leon seems to be urging her to be quiet, and I’d like to say to her that it’s alright, that I don’t mind her talking about her dead son, but I can’t do it. Instead I continue to eat, slower now.

“Leon doesn’t eat much. I give most of his food to the birds. Nice to see someone enjoying what I make.”

There’s an edge of reproach and I nervously remember family rows over food, though we never sat down like this over roast beef. More likely over a Chinese curry on a Friday night, if Stuart was feeling flush, or a pot noodle if he wasn’t, but get us all in the same room and something was bound to kick off.

Wanting to break the new mood, Leon grabs his girth and declares, “I don’t think anyone would accuse me of being anorexic, love. I just can’t eat for two.”

It was there anyway. I could feel it. The gap in their lives, the space that Michael had left, with Issi unable to cook less food and accept he has gone forever. If only it could be fixed by simply by eating three Yorkshire puddings. I’m sitting in Michael’s chair, but I can never be him. If these kind people knew what I did they’d ask me to leave, maybe worse. They’ve known loss, and I’m the bringer of it, so what else could I expect?

That night, back in the flat, my heart aches. In that lonely space between asleep and awake I wonder if Leon and Issi could ever love me. I’ve never kissed a girl, never had a crush even on a teacher, never felt anything like yearning before. And now I do, but it’s not for a girl, or sex, but for two old people. Old people with squirrels and a memorial garden to a boy who’d liked football with goofy teeth. They never said how he died, or how old he’d been, but the gap was still there in their lives.

There’s a gap in my life too. A mother who hasn’t replied to my card, who didn’t visit when I was locked away. A step-dad who sold a story to the papers about how evil I am. No, I can’t go there. If I do, I just might start to wonder where Noah fits into the picture, how I became Humber Boy B, and that’s something I can’t bear to do. I decide to just think about the Sunday lunch, how this was a good day. How things might be alright, after all.

29

The Day Of

Nazma liked the window ledge, it was her favourite spot in the whole house. The ledge was wide enough for her narrow body, and with the curtain pulled across it felt cosy, but best of all she could look out over the estate, the houses and the park, and see what was going on without anyone even noticing. Somehow Nazma never really got noticed by anyone.

Now, she was sat with a book, losing herself in the story of a group of children who lived on an island with no parents. She liked to read, but sometimes felt she’d rather be outside if only someone would call and ask her to play. Sometimes she saw other kids from school, roller-skating or skateboarding up ramps on the kerbs, but she didn’t join them. It was hard to make friends when you were different, and anyway her mum worried if she was out. Also, she told Nazma that working hard at school would mean that she would have a good future, a career. Her mother worked so hard in the shop, but the rewards were slight, and she repeatedly said that she wanted more for her daughter. Not more money, though this would hopefully come, but more respect.

“A doctor, an accountant. These are jobs that matter in the world,” her mother often told her.

Nazma sighed, wished she had a sibling with whom to share this burden of responsibility to achieve and so please her mother, and turned back to her book,
Swallows and Amazons
, losing herself in the childish thrill of island life, the problem of how to start a fire with no matches. She did not want to be a doctor, she was no good at science or maths. She wanted to start a fire with sticks and build a tree house.

A movement outside made her look up from her book. Approaching the shop were a trio of boys. Two had their heads down, so she couldn’t see their faces, but one of them looked up and she saw it was Noah. She’d known him for five years, ever since they both started primary school. He stopped, crouched down to tie his shoelace, and when he righted himself she raised a hand to the window and pressed the glass, it felt cool under her palm. He waved and she grinned at him as he disappeared into her mother’s shop. She could hear the bell tinkling over the door and imagined him standing at the counter.

Nazma fantasised that in a minute her mother would call up to her, say that Noah had asked if she would like to go out and play. She closed her eyes and imagined laughing, running, the sun on her arms. She could tell him what she had learned from the book, how to build a raft with logs and twine. How to boil water and let it cool before drinking it. She would surprise him with how much she knew.

She waited. Eventually the boys re-appeared outside, quickly breaking into a run. Noah disappeared down the street without even looking back. She saw that his shoelace had come undone.

Nazma returned to her reading.

30

Now

FACEBOOK: FIND HUMBER BOY B

Silent Friend:
I’ve found him. I saw him coming out of his flat, a nice one too. What do you want me to do now?

Michael Farrow:
They’ve given him a nice flat? That takes the biscuit. Do-gooders make me sick. Bring back capital punishment, that’s what I say.

Silent Friend:
I was thinking along the same lines myself.

Noah’s mum:
I don’t believe in the death penalty. But I do believe in punishment, and eight years is nothing for what he did. Why does no-one listen to the victims until it’s too late? Until we are backed into a corner with only one way forward?

31

Cate

Walking into the conference room on Monday morning, Cate’s first observation was that Olivier’s open-necked shirt revealed a surprising amount of chest hair. Her second was that he hadn’t even looked up from his iPad to say hello. She had dressed so carefully too, choosing a green silk blouse that she’d bought in the summer sales but never had occasion to wear and a pencil skirt that she usually only wore in court. Even her make-up had taken longer than usual, and she’d dipped into Amelia’s growing stash for a suitably girlish lip gloss. All of this had made her fifteen minutes late and he hadn’t so much as glanced in her direction. The bastard was surfing Facebook.

“Morning, Cate.” Penny, at least, looked pleased to see her. “You’re looking good. Going somewhere?”

Damn. But at least Olivier was looking up now, his appraising glance sweeping over her and then locking with her own. He really did seem to have a lot of chest hair. Very dark.

“Er. Just celebrating the reprise in the weather, Penny. It’s like summer.”

“Not for me,” said Olivier, fixating back on the screen of the iPad so she couldn’t see his expression. “I went to a ski slope on Saturday.”

That, at least, made Cate smile to herself. She forced herself to notice Ged, still in sweaty tweed, who gave her a nod. “Hi, Ged. How are you?”

“Fine.” But he didn’t look it, arms crossed across his chest in a pose that clearly said he didn’t want to be there.

Stephen Flynn entered, thankfully running even more late than Cate, with a fat file that he chucked into the centre of the table. “Bloody Facebook. I could sue that Zimmerman bloke, trouble he’s caused.”

Cate looked to Penny for an explanation but it was Olivier who pushed the iPad towards her, open at the page entitled FIND HUMBER BOY B. He touched the latest message with his pen.

Silent Friend:
I’ve found him… What do you want me to do now?

“It could be a lie,” Cate offered. “You know, all those people who make calls to Crimewatch just because they want to be involved with something.”

“Possibly. Or maybe he thinks he has found Ben, but he’s wrong.” Olivier said, scrolling on the iPad and pointing out the picture of Ben playing with Noah in a paddling pool. “The pictures on this site are very old, no-one could be sure what this boy would look like in eight years.”

“What makes you think it’s a he?” Cate said. “Silent Friend could be a woman.”

Olivier actually snorted with laughter. “It’s not a woman! Women do not become vigilantes.”

He said it with such pomp that Cate bristled.

“Never heard of Medea? Lady Macbeth? Women are no less… ”

He interrupted her with a dismissive wave of the hand, “Tish tosh, these are fictional women. Real women are nurturing, they are homemakers and wives. It is a rare thing for a woman to be violent.”

She couldn’t tell if he was winding her up or being serious.

“I’ve got real life examples if you’d like me to give names.”

Steve rapped the desk with his knuckles. “Okay you two, enough. If we’re fighting amongst ourselves how will we work together to protect Ben?”

Ged finally spoke. “I thought we were supposed to be protecting the public, not him.”

For a wild second Cate wondered if Ged was Silent Friend. He knew where Ben was, and he’d made no secret of his revulsion at Ben’s crime. But he wouldn’t be so foolish as to post a threat when he knew the police were monitoring Facebook. And he’d be risking his career. He wasn’t that stupid, surely?

“Can you trace the post?” Cate asked Steve. “Find out who sent it?”

“We’ve tried, but only got as far as the server. Whoever it is, is internet savvy, enough to cover traces. All we can say for sure is that the server used is in York, Humberside.”

Relief flooded through her, more than she’d expected to feel. “Just a hoax then. Not someone in our neighbourhood, who may have actually seen Ben.”

“It makes a hoax more likely,” Steve agreed. “But we can’t rule out that the danger is real. Not that it can change anything, not unless something actually happens.”

“I can’t move him,” said Ged. “It was hard enough finding that placement, nowhere near a school, nowhere that other criminals might live. The marina is the safest option, if they find him there then we’ve done our best, but it was inevitable.”

“Let’s not jump the gun,” said Penny. “I think it’s best if we tell Ben nothing about the threats, no point in raising his anxiety. We just have to wait and see.”

“Wait and see if he’s attacked?” Cate asked, though she knew the answer.

32

Ben

Leon can’t believe that I’ve never seen
Skyfall
. He looks so shocked that I feel I’ve made a blunder and try to remember anything I do know about it, blagging that I grew up watching James Bond, but he still watches me with disbelief. Finally I give in, shrug, and simply say, “We didn’t see many films in my home.” Which was true. Sometimes, in the secure unit, a member of staff would announce it was film night and we’d all get excited, even though the film would always be the favourite of whatever staff member was on duty that evening so if it was Kevin it would be
American Pie
, if it was Sue from the education team we always ended up watching
Harry Potter
. But film night was difficult, it was rare to get through the whole film without someone starting a fight or farting loudly or kicking a chair so hard that Kevin or Sue would get fed up and send us to bed, so they could finish watching their film in peace.

Leon is similar in a way, he wants me to watch his film so he can hear me say how brilliant it is but I’m happy, happy to be in the small windowless room in the aquarium where we make tea, watching the laptop screen and trying to make sense of why James Bond is jumping on trains and who it is he’s following. I’m thrilled, though I can’t show it because I sense that would be the wrong thing. He already thinks I’m odd.