by Ayre, Mark
The second hand on the nearest clock turned full circle before he realised he was staring. Not that she noticed. Her eyes were fixed on her phone and James got the impression a piano crashing inches from her feet would not have dragged her attention from the glaring screen.
Almost as slow as the lion creeping up on the gazelle, James approached, going with unnecessary care given her fixation on the phone. Stopping a couple of yards short of bumping into her, he gave a light cough to finally draw her attention.
“Hi. You’re Amy, right?”
She was young - sixteen or seventeen at a guess - and her eyes looked younger. Big and blue as the ocean with sadness to match their depth, a puffy red ring bordering them like a disappointing sunset. She didn’t look as though she had slept and he wasn’t surprised. Guilt was a fast way to insomnia.
A nod was her only response, and it made James uncomfortable. He wanted to talk but did not like to lead. Wasn’t used to it. He decided to start with a simple introduction.
“I’m James.”
He stuck out a hand. She didn’t take it.
“I was there last night. With… Charlie.”
Not with Charlie, of course. Luke was with Charlie. This was already getting out of hand and speaking of hand - his was still raised.
He lowered it.
“If you want to talk -”
“I don’t.”
Her words came out cracked and unsure, as though they were not just the first of her conversation, but her life.
James had no idea what to say.
“I want to be alone,” she said and, when he failed to move, took the initiative, stepping away.
“I know what it’s like,” he said, the words falling out in a jumble. It sounded stupid, but she stopped anyway.
“Lost a kid you were supposed to be babysitting, did you?” Her tone was cutting. A defence mechanism intended to push him away.
It didn’t work.
“Not exactly.”
A pause. He’d tried so hard to shove the memories into an inescapable box, but it hadn’t worked. The images and sounds of the past had been sneaking through the cracks, infecting his mind. Making him remember.
That had been bad. Now he unclicked the latch and swung the chest open. In an instant the whole night came back, flooding his mind with such intensity he almost went to ground. He fought for balance. Focused on Amy. The story running through his head was a long one, full of fraught emotion that could tip him over. He distilled it, both for her sake, and his own.
“When I was a kid, not much older than Charlie, I met up with my friend, Toby, and led him into the woods by my house. Once there, we fought, and I ran off.
“That night Toby’s mother came to my house and said he hadn’t come home. I was terrified. I told her about the woods and her, my dad, and I called the police, then went looking. We searched for hours but couldn’t find him. I went home in the morning more tired than I have ever been, but so wracked with guilt I couldn’t sleep. So I know about guilt. I know how you feel. I get it.”
Part of him expected her to walk off, but she didn’t. She stood where she was and stared, her eyes wet. Because of his story, her guilt, or both, he didn’t know. Didn’t know if she’d speak again, but she did.”
“Did you find him?”
Her voice was so quiet if the wind had been blowing the other direction he wouldn’t have caught it.
“Yes,” he said. This was true, but he prayed she wouldn't ask the obvious follow up.
She did.
“Was he okay?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. He couldn’t afford to hesitate. Before she could question it, he ploughed on.
“Charlie will be, too. Everyone will pull together and find him, and it isn’t your fault. You can’t think it was your fault.”
“You don’t even know what happened.”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
She thought about that and glanced at her phone. The screen was still lit, and she didn’t close it down. The tears in her eyes were swelling like inflating balloons. Her lips trembled as she spoke.
“I thought he’d be okay. I was only gone five minutes, and he was in bed. If I’d known what was going to happen, I would never, ever… I love him to bits. I love him.”
She was sobbing now, and he came forward again, rose an arm to touch her shoulder, and she jerked away, shaking her head.
“My fault,” she moaned. “My fault.”
“It’s not your fault. I promise it’s not. Amy, look at me -“
She looked up, ready to listen. Ready to be helped. He had one chance to absolve her of her guilt and was desperate not to screw it up.
“Amy -“
Her eyes widened, dragged from his face by someone behind. James heard the feet and whirled to see the oncoming storm. Had just enough time to register Claire before she was brushing past him with an inhuman scream, her arms out, grabbing Amy’s throat with one hand and her hair with the other, her voice reaching such a pitch James was surprised the nearby windows didn’t shatter.
“My son. My son. You let him have my son.”
Amy went down. Claire on top. The phone skidded across the ground as Claire continued to scream and James stayed where he was, paralysed.
“You lost my son, my boy. He’s gone because of you.”
Claire had Amy’s hair with both hands now and was tugging up and pushing down, crushing Amy’s skull into the grass. James watched, and with every hit, another vision splashed into his eyes. Toby shoving him in the woods. A brick swung at him on the riverbank. Mohsin, attacked by a stranger.
The last image to come was plucked from the previous sleep’s nightmare. The boy James curled in a ball, crying impotently while Toby prepared to kill Charlie.
How like this that had been.
With that thought, the paralysis broke. He rushed forward without knowing what he was doing and grabbed Claire’s shoulders, yanking her away. He expected this to be difficult, but Claire was unbalanced, and came easily, flying back and almost sending James tumbling to the floor with her.
“Stop,” he cried, holding her from behind. “You have to -“
An elbow swung. James saw it but not soon enough. Pain exploded from his groin, and he staggered back, bent double, tears in his eyes.
“Bitch,” Claire hissed, back on Amy. “You did this. I trusted you, and you did this.”
James steadied himself, breathing deep to overcome the pain. Stopping Claire had to be the priority, and he staggered towards her as she spun his way.
He stopped, thinking she was going to attack him as she had Amy, but she strode straight past, omitting deep sobs as she began to jog and disappeared around the corner.
Once she was gone, James turned to the pale-faced Amy. Went to where she lay and offered a hand which she batted away.
“I’m fine.”
He took his eyes from her and saw something glint in the grass. As she staggered to her feet, he bent and picked up her phone, seeing as he did the name at the top of the text stream (Beans) and the last two messages - the first from him, the second from her.
I need some now.
Meet in half an hour. Same place.
“What are you doing?”
He turned, phone still in hand. Tried to mount a defence of the indefensible - he had, after all, been reading her messages - but only gold fished as she snatched the phone from his grasp.
“Nice one,” she said, her voice filled with anger and hurt.
“Amy, you don’t need to -“
“Get lost,” she hissed. “Leave me alone.”
There was no chance to respond. She turned and stormed off. Phone clutched so tight he worried the screen might crack. Then she disappeared around the opposite corner to Claire, leaving him alone.
Thinking.
He hadn’t meant to read the messages, but he had, and although nothing had been explicitly stated, he thought he knew why Amy felt so guilty. He thought about what Sharon ha
d said.
Lord knows she’s had her problems.
She had promised Claire she would babysit. She had taken on the job of looking after Charlie and when the boy had needed her most, where had she been?
Away from the house, buying or taking drugs.
If that were the case, maybe, James thought, she deserved to feel guilty after all.
CHAPTER TEN
He completed his loop of the school like the Hunch Back pacing Notre Dame. Lopsided, staggering, his face twisted and unattractive as he tried to handle the pain of Claire’s sharp, fast and well-placed elbow to his special place.
By the time he made it back to the double doors from which he had burst after Emma’s stunt, the worst of the pain was gone, but the strain remained and probably would for the rest of the day. Still, he had only to hobble away before the meeting ended and -
The double doors sprung open, and the masses exited, filing towards cars and pavements to make their way home. He had enough time to hope he saw no one he knew before Megan appeared, saw him, waved, and approached.
“Alright?” she said. “You look pained.”
“Walked into a -” he realised his hand had sub-consciously reached towards the affected area and drew away - “post.”
Too late. Her eyes travelled to his zipper, and his blood went to his cheeks.
“How are you?” he said, trying to draw her attention from his crotch.
“As well as can be expected, considering the situation. What happened to you, then? You shot out the hall like your arse was on fire.”
“Very eloquent,” he smiled. “I felt a little ill. Needed some fresh air.”
“And a nice brisk walk into a post?”
“Something like that.”
She smiled, and his heart responded, pressing against his chest as though trying to reach her. He bade it stay put so as not to kill him, and tried to think of something to say that might sound kind of cool, kind of confident. Something that would undo the weirdness of his walking into a post.
“So, Megan -” but of course there was nothing. “Where’s Mark?”
“Had to dip out. Work doesn’t stop for an estate agent. Even on a Saturday. And speaking of, I hear you’re house hunting?”
“That’s the plan. Not yet, though. I still want to help. To do anything I can to support the Barneses during this time. I know that sounds weird.”
“It sounds unbelievable,” Megan said. “Guys so nice shouldn’t exist. But I almost believe it of you. Mad to say after knowing you 18 hours but there it is. You could still be a psycho.”
“I hope you never think so.”
“I hope you stick around.”
She bit her lip, as though she hadn’t meant to say it, and he guessed that was true. He wondered how her opinion would change if she knew his selfish motivations for helping, and of the guilt in his past. Tried not to think on it. People continued to flow past like an unstoppable current, but they were blurs. Extras. He could see only her.
“It’s a pity,” he said.
“What is?”
“You and Mark.”
A pang of guilt as he said it but not enough. Megan rolled her eyes and tutted.
“Careful.”
“Just saying. You’re a great girl.”
“A taken girl. And you’re a great guy.”
“A nice guy. No one ever wanted that.”
“You’d be surprised.”
Was that the angels he could hear singing? Or were they laughing at his hypocrisy? Seconds ago he’d spoken of supporting the Barneses any way he could. Now he was trying to poach Mark’s girlfriend. An uneasy thought, but not one that changed the way he felt.
“Megan, James, there you are.”
Out the double doors strode Christina, George a little way behind. The crowd parted, giving them the space to glide through unopposed. Some spoke as they went, but Christina made no response, reaching James and Megan without once stopping or looking back.
“Christina,” Megan said, her voice closer to polite than warm. Christina responded in kind.
“Hello, dear, where’s Mark? -” a wave of the hand. “Forget it. He’s a grown man, I must remember. James, what happened to you? My speech can’t have been so terrible?”
“I’m sorry. I was fine one moment, ill the next. Had to get out.”
“Well, I can’t fault you for that. Besides, you’ve done enough already. More than enough.”
“I want to do more.”
“Because you’re a star,” she smiled. “But I’m not sure what you can do. The police are looking for Luke, and the whole village will keep an eye out, but he’s gone, let’s face it. There’s nothing any of us can do from here.”
“He could help at EKC,” Megan said, and blushed when all eyes turned to her. “You were saying earlier, George, you could use someone’s help over lunch. What with Mohsin -” she searched for the word, decided on the euphemistic - “unavailable.”
There was a moment of unease. George didn’t look all there, and Megan worried she might have put her foot in it. Christina recovered first and gave her widest smile yet.
“That’s a wonderful idea if James is agreeable? -” he nodded - “George, what do you think?”
George looked like he had more important things to worry about than who was working at EKC over lunch, but a look from his wife prompted a forced smile.
“Yes, James, we’d be happy to have you. I’m heading there now if -”
“James will need to change first,” Christina said. “I’m assuming you’ve been wearing those clothes for over a day?”
James hoped this assumption came from her knowledge that he had stayed at her house the previous night, sans a change of clothes, rather than looking at the state of him.
“Please,” he said.
“Excellent. Let me give you the address, and you can be there in no time.”
No time later (around quarter past eleven, to be exact), James came in sight of EKC. A building converted from a run of five Victorian terraces, with a large reception at one end and double doors at the other.
Approaching reception he felt the general anxieties creep up - was he supposed to knock, ring a bell, phone, or walk in like he owned the place? - and was on the verge of hyperventilating when the door ached open. Out came a small seventy-something woman wearing a pink flowery cardigan and the kindest smile he had ever seen.
“You must be James,” she said, holding out a hand so frail he was afraid to take it. “Diane Michaels. George told me you were on your way. Come in, come in.”
With creaking bones she pulled open the door, trembling under the weight of it as she first allowed James through and second tried to stop it from smashing closed in a way that might ruin the ambience of the reception room.
But for the lack of magazines, the little room - with its wooden floors, padded chairs, desk and low coffee table - would have suited any Dentist’s surgery or hairdressers. Which might have explained the shiver of foreboding James got stepping in.
Behind the desk - and a computer that could have been the first desktop - George stood, sorting mail. A task he stopped as James entered.
“Hello again,” he said, holding onto that same weak, watered down smile from earlier.
“Are you doing okay?” James responded, unable to help spilling the useless platitude. The last of the smile slipped.
“It’s a tough time. We all love Charlie very much, but I am particularly fond of the boy. Closer to him than anyone besides his mother, I would say. So, for Luke to have done what he has done. It hurts.”
“You’ll find him.”
“Ah, you share the same optimism as my wife. A wonderful trait and I can only hope you are both right. But, in the meantime, life goes on. Even when we might wish it would stop. Had I normal job, I would take time off. As it is…
“I take it you’ve heard of EKC?”
James nodded.
“A charity with centres across the country. You help r
unaway kids. We had a talk when I was at school.”
“That’s pretty much it,” said George, pointing to a door at the end of the small room and walking around the desk. “Come on, let’s get on.”
They exited into a long corridor that appeared to run the length of all five terraces. The lights were low, the floor, walls and ceiling dark. James could hear a few voices, footsteps, but the place was quiet. George led the way, talking as he went, gesturing into rooms as they passed.
“Founded in 1953 by Elwood Jones. He lost his wife to childbirth and his son a few years after that. He was alone until he met a teenage girl. Edith King.
“Games room -“ gesturing into a room with a couple of consoles, a pool table, table football and stacks of board games and packs of cards - “and down the left are rooms occupied by children we consider to be particularly at risk. All taken, at the moment. Come on.
“Edith escaped an abusive father and drug addict mother. She was afraid and alone, and Elwood took her in. Eventually, he would adopt her but, before then, she inspired one of the most significant ventures in the country. The Edith King Charity.
“Since it’s founding we’ve helped thousands of children. Getting them off the street. Teaching them real-life skills and helping them get jobs. Upstairs we have offices for those who work here - as well as Rachel, our healthcare liaison, and Ben, a part-time police officer who helps in his spare time. Beyond these, we have meeting rooms, training rooms and classrooms.”
They passed toilets and a couple of relaxation rooms before reaching the final door on the right.
“I’ve worked here since I was 23, if memory serves, and have been running this centre for almost twenty years. I’m proud of everything we’ve achieved, transforming this branch into one of the most successful in the country in terms of getting jobs for the kids that come through our doors.
“And this,” he said, opening the last door and gesturing inside, “is the canteen.”
