‘I don’t understand. What kind of things do they ask? And about which people. Your mother?’
You’re not in court, Trish, she reminded herself. This boy is not a witness.
He was blushing, which troubled her, and peering all around the room, his eyes moving so fast in their sockets he looked panicky.
‘Jay?’ she said as gently as she could. ‘What things?’
He stared at the floor and hugged the trainers more tightly.
‘How did you manage to rescue the trainers?’ she asked lightly when it was clear he wasn’t going to answer. ‘You can’t have had them with you in Pizza Express. And where’s your school bag?’
He hunched his shoulders and gave all his attention to the bread and cheese. Trish watched his back and waited.
‘Jay?’ she said again, trying not to sound aggressive but determined to get at the answers somehow.
‘I waited,’ he said. His voice was tight with strain. ‘Till I saw Darren taking Kimberley to school ’smorning. There was no one else about, so I let myself in to the flat and took my trainers and legged it again.’
‘But why?’
He looked at her as though she was mad. “Cos they’re the ones David give me. I couldn’t leave them for fucking Darren.’
‘Right. I see,’ she said, remembering why she so often liked him so much. ‘And the schoolbag?’
‘It’s by your bins, under the iron staircase. I hid it there last night after I run.’
‘I’d better rescue it,’ she said. ‘The binmen come tomorrow and we don’t want them taking it by mistake.’
‘C’n I go to the toilet?’
‘Of course. I should have said. And have a hot shower, if you like. Use my bathroom, but be as quiet as you can because George is asleep. Go up the spiral stairs and it’s the first door on the left. There are lots of clean towels in the airing cupboard.’
She was as quiet as she could be on the stairs outside the flat and took enough time at street level to stand under a streetlamp and peer at the bag. There were no signs of blood that she could see. But a CSI or a lab technician would undoubtedly do better if they ever got hold of it.
When she took it back into the flat, Jay was crouching beside the fire again, drinking his tea. The trainers were neatly lined up by his side. He heard her and tensed, then picked them up again and tucked them under his arm. She carefully double locked the door.
‘C’n I stay here then?’
‘Tonight? Yes, of course. We will have to talk about what’s best to do next, but you should get some proper rest now. I haven’t got a spare room so d’you think you’ll be OK on one of the sofas if I get some rugs and a pair of David’s pyjamas?’
He turned then and looked fully at her. She saw his face and hair were still wet, as though he hadn’t dared take time to dry before he put his clothes back on.
‘You sure?’
‘I’m sure, Jay.’
He glared at her, as though daring her to retract, then nodded. She’d passed a test. He carried the trainers to the end of the sofa, then went back for his mug.
‘I’ll get some more rugs,’ Trish said, not knowing whether she’d done the right thing but certain she’d taken the only possible course. No one with any humanity could have sent this vulnerable boy back into the physical cold of the streets, or to the worse cold of a police station cell.
When she came back with the rugs, he was huddled in his underclothes, clutching a cushion and looking even more defenceless. He gabbled something so fast it took her a full minute to disentangle the sounds and work out what he’d said:
‘I thought the police was going to ask me about George.’
‘George?’ she repeated. ‘Why would they want to talk to you about him?’
‘Because Darren’s always going, you know, George is a kiddy-fiddler and that’s why he keeps bringing me in the car.’
Trish felt like someone clinging to a frail tree in a hurricane as the full force of rage hit her.
Jay was looking terrified, so she smiled and watched his expression ease. She was so touched by his battle to protect George that she wanted to take him in her arms and hug him as he’d never been hugged in his life. She couldn’t, of course, so instead she unfolded the rugs and spread them over him, tucking the top one securely under the sofa’s solid cushions.
‘You shouldn’t have put yourself at so much risk,’ she said, tidying his strange fringe. ‘George is big enough and old enough to protect himself against silly allegations like that. He’d hate to think of you spending all night in the cold so you didn’t have to answer questions about him.’
‘You’re wrong, Trish.’ Not even the most passionate defence counsel could have sounded more serious. ‘You don’t know what the cops are like. They can do you even if you haven’t done it. The more you say you never, the more they say you have. That’s why I won’t talk to them, why I run away.’
‘It was very generous of you, but next time you mustn’t. You must phone one of us instead and we’ll help. Don’t worry about it now. Good night. Sleep well.’
‘Night.’
Upstairs, with George asleep beside her, she realised that Jay’s explanation of his flight had completely distracted her from the questions about his mother. He’d never answered any of them.
What if, running from Darren, he’d passed his mother and seen how drunk she was just when he needed her to protect him? Who could blame him if he’d hit out?
Trish must have slept eventually because she woke to the smell of grilling bacon and the sound of running water. Why hadn’t George woken her? On cue, her alarm clock beeped at her and the news came on.
‘Hi,’ he said, returning with his towel in its usual toga style. ‘You must have been very quiet with your midnight feasts. I had no idea we had an extra inhabitant this morning until I smelled the bacon David was cooking him.’
‘When was that?’
‘About half an hour ago. I thought I’d leave you to get whatever sleep you could. What time did he get here?’
‘Two-ish, I think.’
‘So you must be knackered. Will you be all right in court this morning?’
‘I’ll have to be.’ She rubbed her sticky eyes and tried to make her brain work. ‘I’ll feel better when I’ve had a shower. I was thinking last night, George: do Pizza Express bills have the time on them, as well as the date? A lot of places do.’
‘Possibly,’ he said, ‘but I think I threw it out.’
‘You? You never throw away receipts. You’re an even more obsessive checker of your credit card statements than I am.’
‘I paid in cash.’
‘I bet you stuffed the receipt into your pocket. Even if you didn’t, we could presumably get it from the restaurant. They must keep records longer than this.’
George unwound his towel and rubbed the remaining water from his legs.
‘Trouble is, Trish, that would be fine if the times mean Jay couldn’t have attacked his mother.’
She reached out a hand to him, glad he’d known instantly what she was thinking.
‘But if they show he could’ve had time to do it,’ he went on, ‘he’ll be stuffed. If the police want to check with Pizza Express, that’s their business. I wouldn’t even try to stop them. But I won’t do it for them.’
She swung her legs out from under the duvet and sat on the edge of the bed.
‘He told me why he ran away.’
George came towards her and laid one damp finger between her eyebrows.
‘Don’t frown, darling. What did he say?’
She told him and watched the expressions fly across his face like scudding clouds. There was a rage as deep as her own, there was compassion, and there was a terrible sadness. Then the sadness was overtaken by decision.
‘I can rejig things at work this morning so I can sort this out,’ he said. ‘I’ll take the boys to school, talk to the head for Jay, and then go with him to the police. If they still think he could have h
ad anything to do with the attack on his mother, I’ll make sure they provide him with a decent legal aid solicitor, who’ll stop him incriminating himself.’
She let the frown ease and briefly held his hand to her cheek.
‘But we can’t condone—’
‘We’re not condoning anything.’ George smiled. ‘But we don’t have to deliver him up to trouble. Think, Trish. We both know what he’s had to put up with from that woman. If he did it – if – it was only after years of provocation, and the most desperate kind of unassuaged need.’
‘We don’t, in fact, know anything about her at all.’
‘She’s a drunk.’ George had rarely sounded so unforgiving. ‘Whether it’s a disease or a matter of choice, her fault or not, it’s buggered up her children’s lives.’
Trish started to speak, but he didn’t give her time.
‘You can’t sit there thinking about it with nothing on all day. You’re due in court. Get on with it before the wicked witch turns you to stone.’
She gave him the laugh he deserved for trying to cheer her up and ran to wash her hair.
Chapter 13
Callie MacDonald woke early on her sixth birthday. She never liked staying in bed if she didn’t have to, and today she had her dad’s words from last night ringing in her head: ‘You never know what the tide will bring a wee girl on her birthday. If she’s good.’
She dressed as quietly as she knew how and heaved the heavy great storm lantern off its ledge in the front porch, switching it on as she unlocked the door.
Outside it was still dark, but the stars had gone, so it wouldn’t be long till morning. She knew the way down to the beach as well as she knew her own bedroom, and the storm lantern gave enough light to show up any holes in the path.
Some days Callie didn’t even hear the wind and the sea because they were always there, but now they sounded extra loud, pulling her on to see what the tide had brought her for her birthday.
Her feet crunched on the pebbles and the wind felt very cold, sliding up under her sleeves and down her neck. But it was worth it.
She waved the hard white beam of light all around, but she couldn’t see anything. For a minute she thought her dad had lied. Then she knew. She was too early. The tide hadn’t turned yet. She hunkered down to wait, shivering.
At last the sound of the waves changed and the feel of the air. Soon it would come, her surprise from the sea. She turned on the lamp again, her strong thin fingers managing the heavy switch easily.
There was something, dead ahead and coming up the beach, pausing with each wave that stopped as if it were teasing her, then coming on again. Only ten minutes later it was high up on the shingle, a big rusty tin, nearly as big as she was. There was some old writing on it, where the rust hadn’t gone. The letters were so faded and worn they were hard to read, but she could see a big C and M. It must be hers, with the birthday present hidden inside.
She tried to open the screw top. But she couldn’t. Even though her fingers were really strong, she couldn’t do it. There’d be sharp stones, though, all over the beach, which might help her get inside the tin. She spent a long time looking for the best: one like a triangle with a sharp point; and another bigger and rounder to use like a hammer.
Bashing the pointy one down on the tin, she made a few dunts, but no more than that. She needed help, but she didn’t want to leave her birthday present for anyone else to steal. Tugging it further up the beach was too hard. Even when she stood with her back to it and her feet pressing into the pebbles, she couldn’t push it.
So she tried again and again, banging with the big stone to push the point down into the rustiest, bentest bit of the tin.
At last the pointed stone made a tiny hole. She bent down to see if she could peer inside, but the smell was awful. It made her choke. And something was bubbling out of the wee hole. She’d got some on her nose. Her skin felt all burning like the time she’d put her finger in the toffee while it was boiling in the pan.
MacDonalds don’t cry, so she tried not to. But it was awful hard. She tried to wipe the stuff off her nose and her hand started to hurt too. And the smell was worse and worse. She was coughing so much she didn’t hear anyone come, but she felt his hand, grabbing the back of her jersey.
‘Hold your breath,’ said her dad as he ran towards the sea with her dangling from his hand.
A minute later, he was holding her face down in the freezing water, sloshing it over her head and her hands.
‘What did you think you were doing, lass? Messing about with filth like that?’
‘It was my present,’ she said, gasping as soon as he lifted her up. ‘You said it would come with the tide.’
‘Oh, Callie! You could’ve … We must get your poor wee face to the doctor, before—’
‘Before what?’
He laughed, but he didn’t sound at all like he usually did when he was happy. ‘Before he goes off on his rounds, lass.’
Angie hung over the lavatory, waiting for the next paroxysm. Through the pain and the whirling in her eyes and the iron band across her gut and the disgusting sensations in her nose and throat, she thought: I hate being sick.
A damp cloth was pressed to her forehead and a strong hand stroked her back.
‘You’ll be OK, love,’ Fran said. ‘This can’t last much longer. There isn’t anything else to bring up.’
Saliva filled Angie’s mouth and she knew she was for it again.
‘Go,’ she said, just before the worst happened.
Fran stayed, holding her head, through the whole horrible episode.
‘I think that’s it,’ Angie said when she could speak again. She wiped her mouth on a bunch of loo paper and reached for the handle on the cistern to flush away the evidence. ‘Sorry.’
‘Come back to bed and lie down.’
‘I can’t. There isn’t time. We’ll be late as it is.’
‘You can’t go to court like this. Up you come.’ She helped Angie to stand. ‘You’ve no colour in your face and you’re as floppy as cooked spaghetti. You need to rest. It must have been something you ate.’
‘It can’t be. You two are safe. We had exactly the same food yesterday.’
‘Then it could be an infection – or a migraine. I used to get them and I was always sick. Better afterwards in fact. Does your head hurt?’
Angie tried to nod, then wished she hadn’t because it felt as though her brain might burst out through her skull. She put a hand out to touch the wall to remind her how to balance.
‘I have to go to court.’
‘No, you don’t. We’ll get an adjournment. It’s no problem. People get ill all the time. There are ways of dealing with it, even in that shithole in the Strand.’ Fran laughed, with a gurgling sound that was too soft to jar against Angie’s headache. ‘Come on. Back into bed. I’ll make you some mint tea, which should settle your stomach. And if you’re no better this evening, the doctor said he’d come out to have a look at you.’
‘I didn’t know you’d phoned. What—?’
‘It seemed like a good idea. He said so long as your temperature doesn’t get much higher or you develop a rash, we don’t have to worry about anything like meningitis. But he wants you lying down and me close at hand in case you suddenly feel worse. So we’ll send Greg to court with a message for the judge – that’s better than just phoning – and I’ll look after you here.’
Angie felt too ill to say anything more. She closed her eyes and tried to find some comfort in the coolness of the pillow beneath her neck. Fran said something else about mint tea and left.
It isn’t a migraine, or meningitis, Angie thought once she was alone and it was safe to let the idea form: it’s Adam and the tanks. I can’t stand up in court, waiting for someone to mention his name and pretend I’ve never …
On her way to chambers, Trish felt as though she had a hangover. It was years since she’d drunk too much, but the burning eyeballs, queasy stomach and aching head that were the r
esult of lack of sleep seemed horribly familiar. The squeak of the door into chambers made her wince and the cheery sounds of the clerks’ room were nearly as bad.
She closed her own door and leaned against it, enjoying the quiet, the familiarity, the privateness of her space. There was a push against her back as someone tried to open the door, then knocked. Moving away, she called out, ‘Come in. It’s not locked.’
Hal pushed his way in, making far more noise than necessary, yelling: ‘I’ve got them. I’ve got them, Trish. Come and look.’
‘Got who?’ she said, staring at his broad, freckly face.
‘Chris and Sally Bowles.’
‘Whom, Trish. Whom.’ Robert’s voice sounded from outside in the corridor. He put his head round the door. ‘Didn’t they teach you anything at your bog-standard comprehensive?’
‘If you can forget your public-school superiority for a second,’ she said as she got to her feet, ‘you can come and join the party. Hal thinks he’s found our saboteurs. How did you do it, Hal?’
‘Peterthewalk. I emailed to ask if he had any pix of the people in his blog and he sent me these. Look!’ He pointed to his computer, which showed a pretty young woman in a cagoule standing against a blurry green landscape. There was a man beside her, but he was so much taller than she that the picture had cut him off at the neck.
‘Did he give you anything else?’ Trish said, peering at the screen, greedy for facts. ‘Like real names or a working address?’
‘No because he thinks they’re really called Chris and Sally Bowles. I Googled those, incidentally, but there’s nothing except the link to the blog.’ He was beginning to sound less triumphant. ‘I thought the pix might help on their own.’
‘I’m sure they will,’ Trish said with automatic reassurance. But she wanted a lot more.
‘Unlikely.’ Robert’s drawl was so full of self-satisfaction that she wanted to hit him. She sent a sympathetic smile to Hal, who looked like a deflated beach ball.
‘Why?’ she said, turning back to see Robert pointing halfway down the screen.
A Poisoned Mind Page 20
