Someone Else's Son (7 page)

‘No,’ she whispered. ‘But I want the police to find them.’ Lorraine Plummer glanced across at Dennis and his detective. They’d edit in a quick shot of them later. ‘I want you to catch them bastards who did this.’ And she fell forward, breaking into a thousand pieces on Carrie’s new wool skirt just as her phone vibrated in her jacket pocket again. The skirt was definitely for the charity shop.

 

‘What do you think?’ Carrie fished antiseptic hand cleanser from her bag and squirted half the bottle into her palm. ‘Think she knows anything?’

Dennis pulled a face. They were going nowhere fast in this traffic. ‘Why would she? Just another gang having a bit of sport. They do it for entertainment, you know. The kid interfered and he got it. Simple as. We’ll probably make an arrest or two for show, but that’ll be that. Many of these cases get binned.’ DCI Masters yawned. ‘Fancy dinner?’

‘No, of course not.’ Carrie stared out of the passenger window. Thank God they’d left that dreadful place. As the last of the derelict – or perhaps they weren’t derelict – houses gave way to more habitable properties, Carrie felt something loosen inside her, something that was usually fixed down tight. She was nauseous and shaky, quite unlike anything she’d experienced in a long while. She pulled her mobile from her pocket, remembering the calls from her son that she hadn’t taken earlier.

‘Den,’ she said thoughtfully, fingering the phone.

‘Yeah?’ Dennis was vague, concentrating on a right turn at a busy T-junction.

Do you ever think what it would be like if it were you?
Carrie wanted to say.
If this was your life?
she swallowed. Shit. ‘Nothing.’

Dennis glanced across at her a couple of times, steering between the traffic. He laughed. ‘Nothing’s something.’ He put on the siren.

Carrie made several attempts to call her son. Each time, it went straight to voicemail.

 

Brody lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Black. He imagined there were thousands of stars glittering above him – his own private constellation. No one else saw what he saw inside his useless eyes. He smoked, the last one before sleep, and he drank a little brandy to help him reach a place of isolation, of desolation – the place that was filled with visions of a life long gone.

Max was a clumsy six-year-old the last time he’d actually set eyes on him. Barging around their comfortable house, Brody watched as his little boy tore round the furniture on skates, annoying his mother when he sent ornaments and photo frames flying as he grabbed on to furniture. He’d been given the skates for Christmas – his idea – and the joy he’d got from them was priceless. Worth much more than the stupid things that got broken.

Brody growled long and low. Those days were gone. He shifted on his bed. It creaked beneath him. He wondered who was living in that house now, if they sensed the happiness left behind.

The house was a far-fetched dream – not, admittedly, where he’d seen himself ending up when he was a student, but life was like that. How everything could change in a moment, like when he’d first set eyes on his future wife. Things like that couldn’t be mathematically worked out; they just
were
, they just existed and had to be accepted. The property they chose was in an up-and-coming area in North London. It had an apple tree in the back garden. They’d saved hard for the down payment. They’d moved in with no furniture, just a mattress on the floor and a few bits of crockery. But it was home, it was theirs, it was perfect. Brody worked long hours and sat up all night studying, researching, preparing lectures for the days he taught at the university. He became well respected, an eminent researcher in statistical theories with papers published across the world.

Two years later, Max arrived, along with a highly paid research and teaching position for Professor Brody Quinell at the Royal London University. Six years after that, he was blind.

A few months later, divorced.

He’d hardly spoken to his ex since. But he’d heard her. Oh yes, he’d heard her.

 

Morning had somehow come – he knew from the warmth on his face. Damn, he hated it when that happened. It seemed as if he’d only just been taking a look at Max, at life back then – a photo album of precious memories playing through his mind – but he must have fallen asleep. He was still in his clothes, ashtray balancing on his belly. His feet were cold. Someone was banging on the door.

‘Brody, Brody, are you in there?’

He recognised Fiona’s voice. He was tempted to stay in bed. She had a key but he always put the security chain on. Kids went round kicking doors in for the hell of it. ‘Coming,’ he yelled out, easing himself up. His back was stiff. Someone banged the floor in the flat above.
Shut the fuck up
.

Brody let her in. He’d been thinking about this. ‘We’re having lunch together again today.’ It wasn’t a request.

‘Not at that place again, please no.’

He knew Fiona would prefer the pair of them lingering over a panini at that new deli, or Sebastian’s Bistro above the music shop, or even bloody McDonald’s. He wasn’t completely blind to everything.

‘No, no. No,’ she reiterated.

‘I’ll take that as a yes, then.’ He noticed her perfume. It was new – spicy yet sweet. What if Max was right? What if she was ‘his woman’? Instinctively, although there was no concrete reason behind it, he knew Max would kick up at the prospect of Fiona as a potential stepmother. He’d hated her presence in his father’s life from the start; saw her as a mother replacement. Fiona, however, had no reason to dislike Max, and she didn’t. She bought him Christmas presents, sent birthday cards, and was always polite when they met, which wasn’t often.

He shook his head. ‘I need to shower.’

‘You do.’

He left her in his living room. Max had tidied up since she’d last been. He’d cleared out the rubbish, picked up the dirty clothes, re-boxed the CDs. He was the only other person Brody allowed in his flat, and Fiona had told him several times that she was sure if he could actually see the place he wouldn’t let anyone in at all, including himself.

The water poured down his body. Brody made quick work of washing. He wondered how much older he looked now than when he’d last seen himself clearly. He remembered exactly when that was and, ironically, it hadn’t been clear at all. He’d been making Max laugh at the fairground hall of mirrors and his torso appeared ten feet wide with a tiny head and stumpy legs. Even then, he knew something was wrong. His son jumped about, giggling at the sight of his unrecognisable father. Some last memory of myself, he thought, turning off the tap and wiping his hands over his hair. An image frozen in time.

Brody dried himself quickly and dressed in fresh clothes. ‘Take them from the left,’ Fiona told him every time she put away his laundry when it came back from the cleaners. ‘If you take a pair of trousers from the left and a shirt from the left, they’ll match. I organised them that way.’ He didn’t like to admit he needed her.

‘Nasty,’ he heard her say when he came back into the living room, towel-drying his hair.

‘What is?’

‘This book.
How to Survive the Playground
. It’s grim what goes on.’

‘A metaphor for life,’ Brody roared. ‘You’re going to read it to me. After we’ve had lunch at the greasy spoon.’ He let his towel fall on the floor. He heard Fiona sigh.

‘Why do we have to eat at that dump? My insides still haven’t unclogged from Chef’s Special.’

‘We’re going to study some youth.’

Fiona stood, jangled her car keys. ‘Spying on kids again? I don’t get it. And what’s with the book on bullying?’ She picked up her bag. ‘I want to know.’ There was silence. ‘Are you collecting data for some new research paper or is it simply Professor Quinell going insane?’

‘Neither,’ he said. ‘But if you put up with another greasy lunch, I’ll tell you.’

 

They had to wait a while. Half of the tables were occupied by kids from the comprehensive a couple of blocks away. The rest were populated by the usual group of old folk, workmen and single mums cluttering up the small space with pushchairs. Edie was waitressing again. She wiped her hands down her front when she saw Brody and Fiona; gave them a sticky menu to peruse as they waited in line.

‘They’re not here yet.’ Brody leant against the wall. More customers pushed in behind them, getting trapped in the doorway. ‘Can’t hear their voices. I can’t
smell
them,’ he snarled.

‘Who’s not here yet?’

‘The ones we’re going to watch. The year elevens. They’re in class until twelve forty-five. By the time they’ve packed up their books, taken a piss, and walked down here, it’ll be one o’clock easily.’

‘Brody.’ Fiona cleared her throat. ‘I don’t mean to sound off or, you know, at all doubting of your motives, but . . .’ she paused. ‘But it’s a little creepy that you know the local school’s timetable. Eating here is bad enough, but stalking children?’

‘That’s where you’re wrong. We’re monitoring, not stalking.’

Fiona dropped her face into her hands.

‘And because I have you with me for cover, no one will think us suspicious.’

‘Your table’s ready, Prof Quinell,’ Edie sang in place of Fiona’s retort.

 

They sat, drank tea and waited. The café was noisy, steamy and hot. Fiona put off ordering food as long as she could, telling Brody that service was slow, that their waitress kept passing them by, that she’d signalled she’d be over to them soon.

Brody touched his watch. He stood up and yelled. ‘Can we get some service here, please?’ The café fell silent.

‘Brody, sit down. You’re making a scene.’ Fiona pulled his sleeve. ‘They’ve just walked in. Same youths that were here last time.’ Edie came up to their table. ‘Chef’s Specials twice,’ Fiona said resignedly. She just wouldn’t eat hers.

Brody leant forward across the table. His eyes were intense, scanning like radar; useless. Fiona could hardly believe they saw only blackness and was convinced he’d developed a sixth sense.

‘Tell me about them. I want details.’

Fiona hesitated. She was torn. She wanted to help Brody with whatever craziness was going on in his mind, but it just didn’t feel right spying on school kids for no reason. She sighed, trying not to admit that it was her feelings for Brody that made her comply. ‘Three of them. All boys. Two dark-haired, kind of shaggy cuts, medium brown, a bit greasy. One of them has awful acne. He looks hard. You know, sort of tough-eyed, as if he’s seen too much in his life already.’ Fiona took a sip of tea.

‘Don’t stop.’ Brody was breathing in short quick bursts. His fingers knotted together on the table. He stared directly at Fiona. No one would know he was blind; no one would know he wasn’t just an ordinary guy chatting with his girlfriend.

‘The other dark-haired boy is a bit boring looking. Pursed mouth, an earring in his left ear. They’re all laughing about something. Looking at a mobile phone. The third boy is dark blond I think, but his head is quite closely shaved. He’s wearing jeans below his school blazer and shirt. No tie. The others are wearing school ties.’ Fiona sighed. ‘That do?’

‘More.’

‘There’s a bag on the floor by the shaved head boy. Black and red backpack. They’re pulling open bags of crisps. One each. Drinking Coke. Oh, but Shaved Head has a Tango.’

‘They still got that phone?’

‘Yes. Spotty’s texting, I think.’

Brody took his mobile phone from his jeans pocket and dialled a number. He held the phone beneath the table. Seconds later he said, ‘Hear that?’

Fiona scowled. ‘Not really.’

‘Look at them. Are they answering the phone?’

‘Yes. Spotty has it to his ear looking puzzled. Did you just call them?’

‘Uhuh.’

‘Why?’

‘To make sure I’ve got the right kids.’

Fiona leant back, puzzled, as Edie dumped sauce, napkins and cutlery on the table. ‘It would seem you have.’ Fiona spoke quietly, watching both Brody and the boys alternately.

‘Good,’ Brody said flatly. He turned his head in the boys’ direction. ‘Because I wouldn’t want to mess up.’

Carrie had given up trying to contact her son. It wasn’t unusual for him not to pick up his phone, if he’d even bothered to charge it. As ever, he’d called her at an awkward time – she’d got up early, being a show day, and had been in the shower – and he hadn’t bothered leaving a message. She felt as if she hadn’t seen him for days. She tried calling one more time, but his phone went straight to voicemail. ‘It’s me. Telephone tag and you’re on. I’m home early this evening. Join me for dinner if you like.’ She hung up.

Martha had bought croissants for breakfast. Carrie ate staring out across a drizzly rear garden from the end of a long kitchen table capable of seating a large family, if only she had one.

‘You home?’ she yelled out, wondering if he’d slunk into his room last night and she’d not noticed. Her voice echoed around the empty house. She couldn’t hear any music or smell the cheap rubbish he doused himself in. ‘All the lads wear it,’ he’d told her. ‘Chick magnet.’ He’d grinned, knowing he was disgusting his mother to the core.

What, she thought, eating a tiny bit of pastry, had the thirty-grand-a-year boarding school actually done for him? She made a mental note to call the headmaster. Yet again. They must be able to work things out. As it stood, the situation was intolerable.

Carrie tipped half the croissant into the bin and went into her office. She booted up her computer. It was still early and, before going to the studio for this morning’s show, she would spend half an hour catching up with what the researchers had sent her. She skipped through the reports of the disaster zones that these people called lives, remotely gawping at their misery from her comfortable home, reading about their poverty, their downright depravity, her dismay at their misery tempered, as ever, by relief that she wasn’t one of them.
Reality Check
could only help people so far.