‘Maybe falling on a rock or jumping out of a tree. A branch could have scratched me.’
‘Were you doing a lot of jumping out of trees yesterday or today?’
‘No, I was mostly watching television.’
‘You didn’t go to school today?’
‘No, I wasn’t feeling very well in the morning. I had a sore tummy, so I stayed off.’
‘Did your teacher know you were off ill today?’
‘Well, what usually happens is that you take in a note the next time you go in …’
‘If you were inside all day today, Sebastian, how did your trainers get like that? How did the blood get on to them?’ Sergeant Turner asked, leaning forward. Daniel could smell the stale coffee on his breath.
‘Could it have been blood from yesterday?’
‘We don’t know that it’s blood on his shoes, Sergeant. Maybe you could rephrase your question?’ said Daniel, raising one eyebrow at the police officer. He knew that they would try to trap the boy in this way.
Angrily, Turner said, ‘Were those the same shoes you were wearing on Sunday, Sebastian?’
‘Maybe. I might have put them back on again. I don’t remember. I have a lot of shoes. I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.’
Daniel glanced at Sebastian and tried to remember being eleven years old. He remembered being shy to meet adults’ eyes. He remembered nettle stings and feeling badly dressed. He remembered anger. But Sebastian was confident and articulate. A spark in the boy’s eyes suggested he was enjoying being questioned, despite the detective’s harshness.
‘Yes, we shall. We’ll soon find out what the marks on your shoes are, and if it’s blood, exactly whose blood it is.’
‘Did you take some of Ben’s blood?’
The dead boy’s name sounded so primitive, so hallowed, in the windowless room, like a transient bubble, oily and colourful and floating before everyone. Daniel held his breath, but the bubble burst anyway.
‘We’ll know pretty soon whether any of his blood is on your shoes,’ Turner whispered.
‘When you’re dead,’ said Sebastian, his voice clear, quizzical, ‘does your blood still flow? Is it still a liquid? I thought it might turn solid or something.’
Daniel felt the hairs on his arms rise. He could see the eyes of the police officers narrowing at the macabre turn of the conversation. Daniel could sense what they were thinking, but he still believed in the boy. He recalled being judged by adults as a child and how unfair that judgement had been. Sebastian was obviously bright, and some part of Daniel understood his curious mind.
It was well after ten when the interview ended. Daniel felt sapped as he watched Sebastian being put to bed in his cell. Charlotte was leaning over the boy, stroking his hair.
‘I don’t want to sleep here,’ Sebastian said, turning to Daniel. ‘Can’t you make them let me go home?’
‘It’ll be OK, Seb,’ Daniel tried to reassure him. ‘You’re being very brave. They just need to get started on the questions early tomorrow. It’s as easy to sleep here. At least you’ll be safe.’
Sebastian looked up and smiled.
‘Will you go and see the body now?’ said Sebastian.
Daniel shook his head quickly. He hoped the police officer near the cells had not overheard. He reminded himself that children interpret the world differently to adults. Even the older juveniles he had defended had been impulsive in their speech and Daniel had had to counsel them to consider before they spoke or acted. He put on his jacket, shivering under its still-damp skin. With tight lips, he said goodbye to Charlotte and Sebastian and that he would see them in the morning.
When Daniel surfaced at Mile End Tube station, it was after eleven thirty and the summer sky was navy blue. The rain had stopped but the air still felt charged.
He took a deep breath and walked with his tie in his shirt pocket, his sleeves rolled up and his jacket hooked over one shoulder. Normally he would take the bus home: jump on the 339 if he could catch it, but tonight he walked straight down Grove Road, past the old-fashioned barber’s and the takeaways, past the Baptist church and pubs he never entered, and modern flats standing back from the road. When he saw Victoria Park ahead of him, he was nearly home.
The day felt heavy and he hoped that the boy would not be charged, that the forensic evidence would clear him. The system was hard enough on adults, let alone children. He needed to be alone now – time to think – and felt glad that his last girlfriend had moved out of his flat only two months before.
Inside, he took a beer from the fridge and sipped it as he opened his mail. At the bottom of the pile was a letter. It was written on pale blue notepaper with the address handwritten in ink. The rain had wet the letter and part of Daniel’s name and address had become blurred, yet he recognised the handwriting.
He took a deep swill of beer before he slipped his little finger inside the fold of the envelope and ripped.
Dearest Danny,
This is a hard letter to write.
I’ve not been well, and I know now that I don’t have much longer. I can’t be sure to have my strength later, so I want to write to you now. I’ve asked the nurse to post this when it’s my time. I can’t say I’m looking forward to the last bit, but I’m not frightened about dying. I don’t want you to worry.
I wish I could see you one more time, is all. I wish you were with me. I feel far from home, and far from you.
So many regrets and bless you, love, you are one of them – if not the biggest regret that I have. I wish I’d done more for you; I wish I’d fought harder.
I’ve said it to you often enough over the years, but know that all I ever wanted was to protect you. I wanted you to be free and happy and strong, and do you know what? – I think you are.
Although I know it was wrong to do what I did, I think of you now, working in London, and it brings me a strange peace. I miss you, but that is my own selfishness. In my heart I know that you are doing grand. I am fit to burst with pride at the fact that you’re a lawyer, but I am not a bit surprised.
I have left you the farm, for what it’s worth. You could probably buy the old place with a week’s wages, but maybe for a time it was home to you. At the very least, I wish that.
I always knew you’d be successful. I just hope that you are happy. Happiness is harder to achieve. I know that you probably still don’t understand, but your happiness was all I ever wished for. I love you. You are my son whether you like it or not. Try not to hate me for what I did. Release me from that and I will rest easy.
All my love,
Mam
He folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope. He finished his beer and stood for a moment with the back of his hand pressed to his lips. His fingers were trembling.
2
‘He’s a runner,’ the social worker said to Minnie.
Daniel was standing in Minnie’s kitchen next to a holdall that contained everything he owned. Her kitchen smelled funny: of animals and fruit and burnt wood. The house was cramped and dark and Daniel didn’t want to stay.
Minnie looked at him, her hands on her hips. Daniel could tell right away that she was kind. Her cheeks were red and her eyes moved about a lot. She wore a skirt that hung right down to her ankles, man’s boots and a long grey cardigan that she kept pulling closer around her body. She had big boobs and a big stomach and lots of curly grey hair that was piled on top of her head.
‘Runs away any chance he gets,’ said the social worker in a tired voice to Minnie, and then, louder, to Daniel, ‘You’ve nowhere to run to now, though, eh, pet? Yer mam’s poorly, isn’t she?’
Tricia reached out to squeeze Daniel’s shoulder. He twisted away from her and sat down at the kitchen table.
Minnie’s sheepdog, Blitz, began to lick his knuckles. The social worker whispered overdose to Minnie, but Daniel still heard her. Minnie winked at him to let him know that she knew he had heard.
In his pocket, Daniel pressed his mother’s necklace i
n his fingers. She had given it to him three years ago, when she was between boyfriends and sober. It was the last time he had been allowed to see her. Social services finally stopped all but supervised visits, but Daniel always ran back to her. Wherever she was, he could always find his mother. She needed him.
In his pocket, with his forefinger and thumb, he could feel the letter of her first name: S.
In the car, the social worker had told Daniel that she was taking him to Brampton because no one in the Newcastle area would have him.
‘It’s a bit far out, but I think you’ll like Minnie,’ she had said.
Daniel looked away. Tricia looked like all the other social workers who had been entrusted with him: piss-coloured hair and ugly clothes. Daniel hated her, like he hated all the others.
‘She’s got a farm, and she’s on her own. No men. You should be all right if there’s no men, eh, pet? No need for all your carry on. You’re lucky Minnie said yes. Yer proper hard to place now. Nob’dy wants boys with all your nonsense. See how you get on an’ I’ll see you end of month.’
‘I want to see me mam.’
‘She’s not well, pet, that’s why you can’t see her. It’s in your best interests. She needs time to get better, doesn’t she? You want her to get better, don’t you?’
After she was gone, Minnie showed him to his room. She heaved herself up the stairs and he watched her hips knock back and forth. He thought about a bass drum strapped to the chest of a band-boy and the furred beaters that thump time. The bedroom was in the eaves of the house: a single bed looking out on to the back yard, where she kept the chickens and her goat, Hector. This yard was Flynn Farm.
He felt like he always did when he was shown his new room. Cold. Out of place. He wanted to leave, but instead he put his holdall on the bed. The bedspread was pink and the wallpaper was covered in tiny rosebuds.
‘Sorry about the colour scheme in here. They usually send me girls.’
They looked at each other. Minnie opened her eyes wide at Daniel and smiled. ‘If it all goes well, we can change it, like. You can choose the colour you want.’
He looked at his fingernails.
‘You can put your underwear in there, love. Hang the rest up in there,’ she said as she moved her weight around the restricted space. A pigeon was cooing at the window and she knocked the window pane to shoo it.
‘Hate pigeons,’ she said. ‘Nothing but vermin, if you ask me.’
Minnie asked him what he wanted for tea and he shrugged his shoulders. She told him he could choose between cottage pie and corned beef and he chose cottage pie. She asked him to wash up for dinner.
When she left him, he took his flick knife out of his pocket and put it under his pillow. He also had a pocket knife in his jeans pocket. He put his clothes away as she had asked, his socks and clean T-shirt sitting to one side of the otherwise empty drawer. They looked awkward on their own, so he pushed them up close to each other. The drawer was lined with flowery paper that smelled funny and he worried that his clothes would smell like that too.
Daniel locked the door in Minnie’s long thin bathroom and sat on the edge of the bath. The bath was bright yellow and the wallpaper was blue. There was dirt and mould all round the taps and the floor was covered in dog hair. He stood up and began to wash his hands, standing on his tiptoes so he could look in the mirror.
You’re an evil little bastard.
Daniel remembered these words as he stared at his face, his short dark hair, his dark eyes, his square chin. It had been Brian, his last foster father, who had said that to him. Daniel had slashed his tyres and poured his vodka into the fish tank. The fish had died.
There was a little porcelain butterfly on a shelf in the bathroom. It looked old and cheap, painted in bright colours that were yellow and blue like her bathroom. Daniel put it in his pocket, wiped his hands on his trousers and went downstairs.
The kitchen floor was dirty, with crumbs and muddy footprints. The dog lay in its basket, licking its balls. The kitchen table, the fridge and the counters were cluttered. Daniel bit his lip and took it all in. Plant pots and pens, a small gardening fork. A bag of dog biscuits, enormous boxes of tinfoil, cookery books, jars with spaghetti sticking out of them, three different-sized teapots, empty jam jars, dirty, oily-looking oven gloves, cloths and bottles of disinfectant. The bin was full and stacked beside it were two empty bottles of gin. He could hear the cluck of her chickens outside.
‘You don’t say much, do you?’ she said, looking over her shoulder at him as she ripped the leaves off a lettuce. ‘Come over here and help me make the salad.’
‘I don’t like salad.’
‘That’s fine. We’ll make a small one just for me. This is my lettuce and my tomatoes, you know. You haven’t tasted salad until you’ve grown it yourself. Come on, help me do these.’
Daniel got up. His head was level with her shoulders and he felt tall beside her. She placed a chopping board in front of him and gave him a knife, then washed three tomatoes and placed them on the board in front of him, next to the bowl of lettuce leaves. She showed him how to slice the tomatoes into wedges.
‘Don’t you want to try one?’ She held a wedge out to his lips.
He shook his head and she popped the slice of tomato into her own mouth.
He sliced the first tomato, watching her as she put ice into a tall glass, squeezed lemon juice over it then emptied the remainder of a bottle of gin over the top. When she added the tonic the ice cracked and fizzed. She stooped to place the gin bottle with the others then returned to his side.
‘Well done,’ she said, ‘those are perfect slices.’
He had thought about doing it since she gave him the knife. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he wanted to frighten her. He wanted her to know the truth about him right away. He turned and held the knife up to her face, the point about an inch from her nose. Tomato seeds bloodied its blade. He wanted to see her mouth turn down in fear. He wanted her to scream. He had tried it before with others and it had made him feel powerful to see them flinch and recoil. He didn’t care if she was his last chance. He didn’t want to be in her stinking house.
The dog sat up in its basket and barked. The sudden noise made Daniel flinch, but Minnie didn’t move away from him. She pressed her lips together and sighed down her nose. ‘You’ve only done one tomato, love,’ she said.
Her eyes had changed; they were not as friendly as they had been when Daniel arrived.
‘Aren’t you scared?’ he asked, tightening his grip on the knife so it shook a little before her face.
‘No, love, and if you’d lived my life you wouldn’t be scared either. Now get that last tomato chopped.’
‘I could stab you.’
‘Could you, now …’
Daniel stabbed the knife into the chopping board once, twice then turned away from her and began to slice the other tomato. His forearm ached a little. It had twisted when he stabbed the knife into the wood. Minnie turned her back on him and took a sip of her drink. Blitz came to her side and she dropped a hand so that he could lick her knuckles.
By the time she served dinner he was starved, but he pretended not to be. He ate with his elbow on the table and a hand supporting his face.
She was chatty, talking about the farm and the vegetables that she grew.
‘Where are you from?’ he asked her, with his mouth full.
‘Well, Cork originally, but I’ve been here for longer than I was there. I was in London for a while too …’
‘Where’s Cork?’
‘Where’s Cork? My goodness, don’t you know Cork’s in Ireland?’
Daniel lowered his eyes.
‘Cork is the real capital of Ireland. It’s about half the size of Newcastle, mind you,’ she said, not looking at him as she cut up her salad. She paused, then said: ‘I’m sorry to hear about your mum. Sounds like she’s not very well right now.’
Daniel stopped eating for a moment. He tightened his fist around his fork an
d stabbed it gently into the table. He saw that she wore a gold cross around her neck. He marvelled for a moment at the tiny suffering which had been carved on to it.
‘Why’d you come ’ere then?’ pointing his fork at her. ‘Why leave a city for ’ere? Middle of nowhere.’
‘My husband wanted to live here. We met down in London. I worked as a psychiatric nurse down there, after I left Ireland. He was an electrician, among other things. He grew up here, in Brampton. It was as good a place as any to me at the time. He wanted to be here and that was grand with me.’ She finished her drink and the ice rattled. She had that same look in her eye that she had when he held the knife at her.
‘What’s a psychiatric nurse?’
‘Well, it’s a nurse who looks after people with mental illness.’
Daniel met Minnie’s gaze for a moment and then looked away.
‘Are you divorced then?’
‘No, my husband died,’ she said, getting up and washing her plate. Daniel watched her back as he finished his tea. He scraped the plate a little.
‘There’s more if you want it,’ she said, still with her back to him. He did want more, but said he was fine. He took the plate to her and she said thank you, and he noticed that her eyes had changed, and were warm again.
When she was finished with the washing up, she came up to his room with some towels and asked if there was anything he was needing, like toothpaste, or a toothbrush.
He sat on the bed, looking at the red swirls on the carpet.
‘I’ll leave one out for you in the bathroom. I have a couple of new ones. Anything else you need?’
He shook his head.
‘You’ve not got much stuff, have you? We’ll maybe need to get you clothes for school.’ She was opening the wardrobe and touching the hem of the one pair of trousers he had hung there.
Daniel let himself fall back on the bed. He put his hands in his pockets and pulled out the little porcelain butterfly. He lay back examining it. She was talking at him, bending down and picking things up from the floor, closing the windows. When she bent down she made little grunts and sighs.
‘What’ve you got there?’ she said suddenly.
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