Someone Else's Son (9 page)

‘Welcome back, Professor,’ he said.

Brody raised his hand. Fiona drove on, following the signs to the staff car park.

‘It’s my first time,’ Brody said as the engine silenced.

‘First time what?’ She liked being at the start of something fresh in his life.

‘Being back at the department since . . . since . . .’ He swallowed and stared straight ahead. So far, he’d refused to talk about how it happened. ‘It’s been a few months since I was here.’

‘Well then,’ she replied. ‘Let’s get in there, shall we?’ Fiona was suddenly as nervous as the great man himself appeared to be. She went round to the passenger side as Brody straightened out of the car. She took his arm and closed her eyes for a second. ‘Main entrance?’ she asked.

‘No,’ Brody replied. ‘Follow the signs to the rear. Look for the porters’ entrance.’

Fiona didn’t need to ask why he wanted to slip unnoticed around the back; and she didn’t need to ask why his hand was trembling as it gripped her arm for guidance. Nor did she question why Brody ignored every well-wisher, students and staff alike, who welcomed him back to work. And speculating about why he stood in silence as the elevator rose to the fourteenth floor was pointless because, she smiled to herself, she already knew.

Professor Brody Quinell was as vulnerable as she was, yet each of them chose to hide it from the world. Before the lift arrived, Fiona screwed up her eyes and tried to fathom the blackness. She felt Brody’s warm hand take her arm as the doors parted. She opened her eyes again, amazed at what she’d seen with her eyes tight shut – a clear view right into the world of the man she hoped would make her whole again.

Carrie couldn’t remember leaving the studio or flagging down a taxi. She didn’t remember paying the driver or flying up the steps of the hospital and demanding to know what was going on. She was unaware that her legs were at the very last point of being able to hold her upright as she leant against the reception desk, panting and snapping at the woman behind the glass.

‘Name of admitted,’ the clerk said.

‘It’s . . . it’s my son,’ Carrie choked out. She tried to say his name clearly but the syllables got twisted. The woman listened, swallowed and typed. Then she paled, glanced at Carrie, and made a phone call.

‘Just tell me which ward he’s on. For God’s sake, which floor is it? This is my son we’re talking about. Do you know who I am?’

The woman nodded that, yes, she did know who the frantic woman the other side of the glass was, but she refused to answer the barrage of questions. Within another minute, a doctor – Carrie thought he was a doctor – was at her side, guiding her away from reception.

‘This way, Mrs . . . Kent.’ Carried noticed the man doing a double-take. Having a celebrity in his department would no doubt be gossip for the doctors’ mess later, but at least it was getting her special treatment now.

‘At last,’ she said. ‘Please take me to my son. I don’t know what the hell’s going on.’

The whole situation was ghastly. A bad dream. No, a terrible nightmare fuelled by a call from the school secretary that there’d been an accident and her son had been taken to hospital. The urgency with which she’d flown out of the studio had surprised her, scared her almost, given that she was in the middle of a show. Finding him with a broken arm, most likely texting from his hospital bed, was hardly grounds for walking out. There would be serious repercussions. She’d give him a serve, teach him a lesson and threaten to get him live on air to discuss wasting parents’ time. Bloody kids, she thought.

As she was led deeper into the hospital, Carrie found herself wishing they shared the same surname; mother and child would then at least have one thing in common, somewhere to start afresh. As it stood, she wondered if the gulf between them – that terrible adult versus teenage void that had somehow spread between them over the last few years – was now too wide to even throw a rope.

‘Do you know what’s happened? Apparently there’s been some kind of accident.’ She almost had to run to keep up with the silent doctor. When he offered only a small smile and a shrug as a reply, Carrie reeled through the possibilities. Chemistry lab, perhaps. Some kind of chemical spillage or maybe an accident in DT with a band saw. Oh God. Did he take his bike to school today or was he on the bus? She had no idea. In fact, she wasn’t sure he’d even stayed at her house last night. Had he been at his father’s? Food poisoning, perhaps. He was always eating rubbish. Or perhaps it was just a sprained ankle. A cracked wrist from falling down a couple of steps. Why, then, Carrie wondered, had she fled the studio without a word to anyone? Why, then, was her maternal instinct – she thought that’s what it was – rearing up inside her as hot as a furnace?

Carrie felt the grip of the doctor’s hand tighten around her arm.

‘This way, Mrs Kent. I’ll take you to someone who will be able to tell you what’s going on.’ He smiled reassuringly.

Carrie was shown into a small room. It was white and had several stacking chairs set out around the edge. On the low table in the centre of the room was a plastic flower arrangement and a box of tissues. In one corner – although she chose not to acknowledge this initially – there was another table draped in a white cloth with a cross standing on top.

It took her a second to see, took a moment for her eyes to pull in and out of focus to check that what her brain was registering was in fact real. And then it hit her. Sitting like a great shadow against the anaemic wall beyond was Brody Quinell, head in hands, knees apart, his hair knotted down his back and about a foot longer than when she’d last seen him.

‘Brody?’ she said. Was it relief she was feeling, that she wouldn’t have to deal with whatever this was alone? Maybe she could go back to work and leave him to sort it all out.

At the sound of her voice, Brody slowly raised his head. There was a woman beside him. Carrie ignored her.

‘What’s going on, Brody? Where’s Max?’

‘He’s dead,’ he replied in a voice that filled the universe. ‘Our son is dead.’

Thirty-four kids in class and only five handed in their essays. Two of those were from Dayna. Max dropped his on top of hers.

‘You’ve been busy,’ he said.

‘I couldn’t decide which viewpoint to write from.’ She slung her pack on her shoulder. ‘So I thought I’d try both. It really made me think.’

Max stared at her, trying to fathom what lay beneath her dark eyes, but she suddenly lurched forward, falling against the lockers.

‘Oi,’ Max called out at the idiot who had barged into her. ‘You OK?’

‘Yeah. That was nothing. She burnt me with her fag last time.’ Dayna pushed up her sleeve and showed Max the shiny red blister on her wrist. She shrugged. ‘Still alive, aren’t I?’

Max reached out to touch the wound, but Dayna pulled away. They were herded along in the flow of kids as the lunch rush began. ‘Do you want to get something to eat?’

‘Don’t have any money.’

‘Follow me.’ Max allowed a small smile and took Dayna’s arm. He led her through the crowds to his locker. Within the bustle, he took out a cold food bag.

‘You’re gonna get it bringing that thing into school,’ she said, backing off.

Max shrugged; only winced a little when the boot came in the knee.

‘
Fekkin’ freako
. . .’

‘Let’s get out of here.’ He pulled firmly on Dayna’s hand and they ran along the clearing corridor as kids headed for the chip shop, the local greasy spoon or, if they were desperate, the school canteen.

Dayna and Max ignored the shouts of the duty staff ordering everyone to walk. They ran outside, through the car park and pushed through a gap in the wooden fence. At this end of the school, beyond the boundary, was an area of scrub land that eventually gave way to the street, a row of shops, and an industrial estate behind. They veered off before they got that far and continued through the scrub.

‘There’s a stream.’ Max grinned. ‘I know all the best places.’ He urged Dayna to follow him, but she lagged behind.

‘I dunno, Max.’ She scratched her leg. The nettles had got through her trousers.

Max held up the cool bag. ‘You wait,’ he said. Dayna nodded and followed, muttering something about being starving, about not eating breakfast. Finally, they came to a depression in the scorched weeds, the building rubble, the tumbledown sheds from long-deserted allotments. They heard the sound of flowing water. Max dropped to the ground, legs spread apart, head thrown back in the weeds. ‘This is the life.’ He grinned, then sat bolt upright when Dayna tentatively joined him.

She stared ahead. ‘Not much of a stream, is it?’

There was a rusty shopping trolley on its side in the three inches of water that struggled along the rock and broken concrete of a man-made drain. An old bike lay three feet away, strewn with plastic bags and rope that had snagged in the current.

‘No, but at least it’s not school. That’s why I like it. And time enough to get back without getting reprimanded.’

‘Reprimanded?’ she said in a posh accent, smiling. ‘You speak funny.’

‘Thanks.’ Max made a face and spread out his school jacket on the ground between them. He opened the cool bag and took out several plastic pots. He set them on the makeshift picnic rug. ‘Lobster with crème fraiche and dill. Honey-glazed chicken with sesame seeds and watercress. Crab terrine. Crackers. Coke.’

‘Bit bloody posh, isn’t it?’ Dayna poked the tub of lobster. ‘I mean.’

Max laughed. ‘My mother left a note telling me to take whatever I wanted from the fridge. So I did. She said it would get thrown away.’

‘I’ve never had lobster. Or crab. I’ve had Coke though.’ Dayna grinned and dunked a cracker into the pale pink mixture. She bit into it, waited to see what it was like, and scoffed some more. ‘It’s really good.’

Max shrugged. ‘We only have proper food at Dad’s. Burgers and stuff like that.’

‘Divorced?’ Dayna’s mouth was full.

Max nodded. He hadn’t started eating. He was watching her devour the picnic. He liked seeing her eat. ‘Yeah, like for ever.’

‘Me too. My mum remarried this lazy shit. Yours?’

‘Nah,’ Max said. ‘Doubt anyone would put up with my mother. Dad’s got this creepy woman. He denies he’s seeing her, but she’s got her claws in. She hates my guts. Sees me as, like, I dunno, like getting in the way. She’d rather I didn’t exist.’

‘Ouch. Who do you live with?’

Max shrugged. In truth, he wasn’t sure. ‘Myself,’ he said, smiling, thinking it could be a good afternoon to bunk off school.

 

By the time they approached the shed, the sky had folded over with layers of cloud. A steady drizzle wet their hair and shoulders. Max felt himself rehydrating.

‘I’ve got a stitch,’ Dayna grumbled. ‘Do we have to run?’

Max slowed to a walk. He had a sudden urge to tuck his arm round Dayna’s small waist, to rub gently beneath her ribs and soothe away the sharp pain. Instead, he tugged harder on her sleeve. ‘We’ll get soaked if we don’t. Come on.’

The railway was about a mile from school. They’d cut through the industrial units – Max holding up the barbed wire as Dayna slid beneath – and run between the racks of unsold cars at the back of the motor dealer. Then it was downhill for a good way until they reached the railway cutting. Max smelt coal smoke as the familiar row of terraced cottages came into view. When he saw them, he knew he was nearly home.

‘Slow down!’ Dayna shrieked as a train sped past them only twenty feet away, sucking up her words like litter as it disappeared down the line.

When Max reached the bottom of the slope, beneath the blue-grey brick bridge, he stopped and waited for her. Picking her way through the knee-high grass and scrub, he thought she looked beautiful. Her hair – shiny from the rain, black, some of it sliced through with a funny shade of orange – framed her pale face in a boyish style. Her nose was tiny, he noticed, as she drew alongside him, decorated with a barely visible dot of a jewel. Her skin was clear apart from an area on her forehead that was grazed with a few spots barely discernible behind her make-up. Her eyes were deep and thoughtful, as if she was drowning in whatever was kept secret inside them.

‘Welcome,’ he said proudly. The wooden shed wasn’t really noticeable until he pointed it out. That’s why Max liked it. That’s how, when it came down to it, he preferred his life.

Dayna glanced around. ‘It’s just the bloody railway.’ Then she noticed the hut in the shadows, partly obscured by the great curve of blue brick that formed one side of the bridge.

‘Come in. Make yourself at home.’ Max had the padlock off and was ushering Dayna inside.

‘Cool,’ she said, nodding as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. ‘How come?’

‘Just found it one day. It was empty apart from some old sacks of cement and a mattress. Think a tramp might have lived here. There were some old cider bottles. Stuff like that.’ Max fought the grin. Dayna was impressed. His own place. ‘Sit down.’ He pointed to the car seat.

‘What’s all this stuff?’ She stared at the boxes. They were dusty.

‘My winnings.’ Max ran his hand over the nearest one. A hairdryer complete with attachments and straighteners.

‘Sweet.’

‘Here. It’s yours. Take it.’ Max held out the box.

Dayna held up her hand. ‘Don’t use that kind of stuff.’ She fingered her hair and laughed.

‘What about your mum?’

‘Nah. My mum’s hair dries in all the hot air my stepdad spouts.’ She tried to laugh again, but it came out as a hiccup. ‘Thanks though.’

Max shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’

‘Now really, where d’you get all this shit from?’

Max felt himself redden. There was no denying the need to be honest with Dayna. From the start, he wouldn’t have it any other way. Whatever they were going to have – what he
hoped
they’d have – had to be see-through, honest, lovely. ‘Won it all. You know, competitions and stuff.’