Men of London 04 - Feat of Clay (8 page)

“There you are.” Jen sounded relieved. “I’m
going to let young Jackson here be your host, Mister Williams. I’m
sure that Randall will be with you in a moment. It was lovely
meeting you.” She waved her cloth at him once again and disappeared
out of the room.

Tate was left facing a young man with the
visage of a stricken angel. His skin was creamy porcelain, with a
shock of thick, unruly blond hair curling above it. His face was
pitted with small, silver scars and a few deeper pockmarks. Both of
the young man’s eyes were milky blue orbs floating in a picture of
flawed beauty. Jackson held himself straight, his slim frame proud
as he stared at Tate with a smile that radiated warmth and
light.

He stepped forward without hesitation and
held out a hand to Tate. “Hi. Call me Jax—with an x.” He grinned,
revealing straight, white teeth. “I help Randy out with stuff
here.”

Tate noticed Jax’s chin tilted up when he
spoke, and his eyes looked down, as if he was trying to see out
from under his eyelids. It was a little disconcerting.

Tate shook the hand, which gripped his
firmly. “Call me Tate. Pleased to meet you, Jax. It must be a
pretty full-time job that, especially taking care of these ones,”
he waved at the now chattering group, “I imagine they’re quite a
handful.” He stopped, wondering whether Jax could actually see the
hand gesture through those damaged eyes. The teen had come into the
room without any white cane or support so Tate assumed he had
some
vision.

Jax smiled. “I’m not totally blind,” he
confided. “I don’t see well, but I can make things out, especially
when I’m about to hit a wall, or a dumpster or something. I just
need the right angle to get a little vision.” He snorted softly.
“I’ve done the dumpster-bashing thing before, so now I’m a bit more
careful.”

There was no self-pity in his tone, simply a
wry awareness of his shortcomings. Tate’s heart ached for such
maturity and self-deprecation in one so young. He also wanted to
maim whoever had done this to Jax. He’d no doubt this had been no
accident but a deliberate, wilful act of violence.

Jax moved forward slowly until he stood in
front of the other kids. He tilted his face upwards, his chin
rising. “Right, you lot, bugger off and get outside. It’s lovely
out, so go and play and I’ll call you when it’s time for
lunch.”

Damian stepped forward and hugged Jax around
the legs. “‘Kay, Jax. I hope it’s spag bol, ’cause I love that
stuff.”

Jax ruffled the top of his head. “It’s
macaroni cheese, not spaghetti Bolognese. Maybe Vicky will make
that for you tomorrow. Now scarper, you lot. Mr Williams needs to
speak to Randy.”

The group ran out of the room, calling to
each other. One child remained behind. She

came forward and touched Jax’s arm. She was
thin and pale with sunken brown eyes, and was no more than about
ten years old.

Jax turned his head to look down at her. Tate
noticed he was very careful with every move he made, his actions
deliberate and slow. “You okay, Lucy?” His voice was soft. “Do you
want to go outside or would you prefer to sit here and read?”

Lucy shook her head. When she spoke, Tate’s
stomach clenched. Her voice was strangled, hoarse, as if her throat
didn’t work properly.

“No. I’ll go play with the others. Krispin
hid my book. Can you ask him to give it back, please?”

Jax nodded. “I’ll speak to him. He’s just
having fun, you know that, right? He’s just teasing you.”

Lucy’s lips tightened. “I just want my book
back. It’s the one you gave me.”

Jax’s expression softened. “I promise to get
it back for you.” He ran a hand over the girl’s lacklustre hair.
“Maybe later you can wash your hair? Jen will help you look all
pretty.”

Lucy’s eyes widened. “With apple shampoo? I
like that smell.” She smiled slightly and left the room.

Jax sighed, a deep, heartfelt sigh that
seemed to come from the very depths of him. Due to the damage to
his eyes, Tate couldn’t see much expression in them but Jax’s sad
face spoke volumes. Tate didn’t want to pry just yet; he was
starting to think he’d rather
not
hear the
stories behind each of these seemingly tragic individuals.

Just then there was a loud noise behind them
and Tate turned to see a short, portly, bearded man bustle into the
room bearing a tray of tea and biscuits. He smiled at Tate as he
set the tray down on the small oak table in the middle of the
room.

“Mr Williams? I’m Randy. It’s lovely to meet
you. Natalie’s told me all about you.” Tate’s startled glance must
have unnerved him because he continued hastily. “Oh, nothing
confidential, of course, she’d never breach patient/doctor
confidentiality. She shared just enough to make me curious.” His
wide grin would have put the Cheshire Cat to shame. “Please, have a
seat, and I’ll play mother. Jax, are you joining us?”

Jax shook his head. “Thanks, but I’ve got
some studying to do.” His mouth twisted. “I have an exam soon.” His
pale blue eyes turned towards Tate. “Nice meeting you, Tate. Hope
to catch up with you soon.”

Randy reached over and grasped Jax’s
shoulder. “Thanks, lad. Don’t overdo the studying. Remember to
break often, and give your eyes a rest.”

Jax made a moue. “Thanks,
Dad
.” He chuckled. “I promise I’ll be careful.”

He gave one last affectionate look at Randy
and left.

“That young man is an inspiration,” murmured
Randy. “He’s one of the bravest people I know.” He glanced at Tate.
“I’m sure you’re dying to know everyone’s story and find out why
you’re here, and I have to confess, I’m anxious to find out yours
too.” He began to pour strong tea into large mugs. “Natalie told me
she thought you could help these youngsters and vice versa.”

Tate blew air out. “I’m not sure how I’m
supposed to help them, but I’m all ears.” He poured milk into his
tea. “Natalie thought this would help me.” He shrugged. “I’m not
sure what she hoped me to get out of it.”

“That woman works in mysterious ways,” Randy
chuckled. “I’ve given up trying to understand women, and I’ve been
married to Jen for almost twenty years.”

Tate nodded his agreement and sat back. “So
what’s Jax’s story?” The man had sparked a fierce protectiveness in
him and he wanted to find out more.

Randy nibbled on a biscuit as he sat back,
mug in hand. “Jax has been with us for just over two years. He was
fifteen when he arrived. He was part of a loving family, with a
very privileged background and a father with an obscene amount of
money. Sounds idyllic, doesn’t it?” His face darkened. “Except Jax
had an older step-brother called Terrence who wasn’t right in the
head. Terry was mean, cruel and made Jax’s life a misery.” He bit
down savagely on his biscuit. Tate blinked at the act of aggression
towards an innocent cookie.

“Jax’s birth mother died when he was twelve
and his father remarried a year later. Without going into detail,
Jax lived in a state of hell, being picked on, harassed and beaten.
His father refused to see what was going on. He travelled a lot.
One night it went too far. Terry came into the house while everyone
was out. He was high on something. He found Jax in his bedroom—Jax
says he’d been asked to put some laundry in there by his step-mum
and he’d forgotten to do it earlier—and he beat Jax almost
senseless for being in his room.”

He put his mug down on the table as Tate
listened in horror. “Jax’s dad is some megastar photographer and
had his own photographic lab out the back, in the garage. Terry
went out there, picked up a container of some fluid Jax’s dad was
using for the photo development and took it back inside.” His tone
was grim. “The fluid contained some sort of acid. He threw it into
Jax’s face while he lay there bleeding on the floor with broken
ribs, internal bleeding and a bad concussion. Then he left.” Randy
heaved a deep sigh.

Tate gasped in horror. He might have been
tortured and beaten himself but the thought of someone that young
being subjected to the same pain and misery he’d experienced was
horrific.

“Christ. What happened then?”

“Luckily, two things helped him keep some of
his sight and negate the damage. His eyes were closed at the time
because he’d been beaten half unconscious. But unfortunately it’s a
natural reaction to open your eyes when something splashes in your
face and it didn’t save his sight altogether. Secondly, the
housekeeper had come back to check on the oven; she was one of
those OCD individuals who thought she’d left it on.

She heard his screams and had the presence of
mind to flush his eyes out with soda water or milk or something,
and called nine-nine-nine. It took Jax months to recover and he’s
also had a lot of plastic and eye surgery. What you see today is
worlds apart from what he looked like straight after the attack.”
He sighed. “He sees better when he tilts his head up apparently. If
he looks at you straight on, it’s all black and he can’t see shit.
It’s a bit of a quirky mannerism but it works for him.”

Tate was speechless. “Where’s his family now?
Why is he here instead of with them?”

Randy’s face saddened. “Terry was arrested
and because he was over eighteen—just—he got a prison sentence for
grievous bodily harm. I don’t know whether he’s still inside or
not. Jax’s dad passed away about three months after the incident—a
heart attack. Jax was still in the rest home at the time, having
all the recuperative surgery. His step-mother sold the house,
packed up and left. No one knows where she went. Jax was an only
child so he had no one else. He did have a trust fund though, a
good one that paid for everything and became his when his father
died. It’s administered through his father’s lawyers and Jax
becomes complete custodian of it when he’s twenty-one.”

Tate still wasn’t clear. “If he has all that
money… no offence, but why is he here, in a halfway house?
Shouldn’t he have his own home with a guardian and doctor at his
beck and call?”

Randy’s eyes lit up. “You’d think that,
wouldn’t you? We met at the hospital he was in. Jen and I were
visiting another child, we got talking to Jax and over the months
we became friends. When he heard what we did for a living, Jax
asked if he could come and stay here and help us. The doctors said
it would be good for his recovery, to feel useful, and if that’s
what he wanted, then let him.”

He picked up another biscuit. “He’s just
never left. He’s part of the extended family really. He’s a
stubborn little blighter, extremely independent and intelligent
indeed.” He popped the whole biscuit in his mouth and Tate watched,
fascinated, as his muzzled jaw moved up and down.

He finally drew his gaze away. “What’s he
studying?” Tate asked curiously.

“He missed some school because of the attack,
but he caught up and now he’s doing his A-Levels in psychology via
distance learning with a local college. He has special
software—non-visual desktop access or NVDA—set up on his PC which
he can use when he doesn’t want to strain his eyes too much. The
last thing we need is the last remaining vestige of sight he has
disappearing altogether, so we’re quite strict in trying to enforce
his eye rest sessions. The college has been good about bending over
backward for him, even given him some textbooks in Braille, which
he can read. Plus he attends a couple of workshop sessions every
month so it gets him out of the house.”

Randy’s eyes shadowed. “He used to be a
promising young artist, but he hasn’t picked up a paintbrush since.
He was also involved in music and played piano; he has a real
creative streak. Now he doesn’t go out much and has no real friends
his own age. It does worry me. He insists he’s fine, but I wonder.
Sometimes he gets this look…” His voice tailed off and Tate waited
to see what
look
this might be. When Randy
didn’t continue he simply nodded.

“It’s a damn tragic tale for one so young.
Makes mine seem paltry in comparison…” Tate hesitated at the wicked
glint in Randy’s eyes and the sudden knowledge that he’d had been
played. That was
exactly
the reaction he
knew that Dr. Natalie Jakes had been looking for.

He raised his cup of tea to Randy. “Touché,”
he acknowledged. “Therapists are manipulative bastards, aren’t
they?”

The other man chuckled loudly. “Tell me your
story then.”

And Tate did. Not all of it, admittedly.
There were aspects of his torture at Armerian’s hands that he’d
never revealed, to either his therapist or Clay. It was too
intimate, too shaming and he’d probably go to his grave with his
secret. When’d he finally finished his story, and Randy had eaten
half of the packet of biscuits and drunk most of the pot of tea,
Tate felt…purged. It had felt good sharing it with someone who
wasn’t close to him like Clay or someone who was trying to heal
him. Randy simply listened.

“Shit, that’s some pretty heavy stuff,” Randy
said, drawing a breath between his teeth. “Thanks for telling me.
I’m sorry you went through that.” He leaned back in his chair and
gave a soft burp, then smiled apologetically. “You can certainly
empathise with some of our kids here, even though your story is
vastly different. Damian—he was sexually abused by his uncle for
years. Lucy—,” his voice grew quiet. “She was kept in a basement
for close to three years by her folks. They thought she was evil
because she burnt her backside on an open electric fire and they
said the burn looked like the mark of the devil. Her father tried
to strangle her and damaged her vocal chords. They were religious
nutters. Luckily for her, one of the kids of the new next-door
neighbours was a little thief. He climbed into the basement window,
came out pretty quickly and told his folks about the ‘weird kid’
living in the basement. They told the authorities.”