The other enclosure was a folded square of white tissue paper. When Jamie unfolded it he found that it was blank except for a large, irregular yellowish stain. Jamie looked at it blankly for a moment. Then the penny dropped. He grinned at first, but then the poignancy of it struck him with full force, and his grin softened to a gentle, reminiscent smile, and his eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Chris," he whispered to himself, and immediately cocked his head, fearful that someone might have heard, but there was no sound from outside his little cubicle.
He sniffed the tissue delicately; pressed it against his cheek; then he kissed it, refolded it and replaced it with the letter in its envelope. Then he kissed the photograph, replaced that too, and finally the envelope itself. Then he slid it carefully into the side pocket of his blazer, flushed the lavatory for cover and reluctantly headed for his next class.
***
"Thanks," said Angela Turnbull as Lane set coffees down on a small table between their chairs. "D'you mind if I smoke?" "Not at all. I'll join you." He fetched an ashtray, accepted a cigarette and sat down. "Now, please put me out of my misery."
"It's about James, of course," she said. "Or rather, it's about his parents. You know Annabel's staying with me for the moment. Well, now they're getting divorced, and it's likely to be pretty squalid. As far as that's concerned I can't say I'm bothered. Couldn't happen to two nicer people, is my attitude..."
"I understood that you and Mrs Potten were close friends," Lane interjected.
She wrinkled her nose. "I'm a friend, and I would have said a close one," she said thoughtfully. "But I've seen a lot of things lately that have shaken me a good deal. She was good to me when I went through a bad time a few years ago, and I owe her something. And... I won't say I don't like her. She's good company, on one level. I've enjoyed having her with me. It's not much fun living on your own. Better than living with a class one bastard, if you'll pardon my French, but not much fun all the same. But it's quite possible to like someone without having much time for them, wouldn't you agree?"
"Of course," assented Lane. "The likable reprobate is a constant character throughout lit... But never mind that. Please continue."
"Well, as I say, I've seen a lot that I haven't much liked in the last little while. Most of it to do with that unfortunate child of theirs. Well, it's going to get worse, and I think you must know what's going to happen. You and your wife seem to be the only people who give a damn about the poor kid.
"Annabel had a visit from David the night before last. He hadn't known where she was until that business at the police station. Not that it would have taken him long to find her if he'd really set out to. She hasn't got that many friends locally, and he knew she'd helped me with my own divorce. I think mainly he didn't give a damn where she was, as long as she was out of his hair. They've really gone a very, very long way apart over the last few weeks. I think they were already, in fact, but hadn't realised. Or maybe it was less trouble to just drift along and gradually go their own ways than to make the break.
"But, of course, everything that's happened lately has made it impossible. Annabel's told me about the fight David had with James - plucky kid, taking a great brute like David on like that, I must say. And now this police business, and possibly a court case, with the papers having a sacrificial orgy over it - well, David doesn't seem to care one way or the other. All he seems to be keen on is crucifying James - some warped sort of revenge, as far as I can see. I've never understood it - your own son, a child of fifteen, but there it is. But the night before last I had a very long talk with Annabel about the whole business, and a lot of things have become a lot clearer." She drank some coffee and lit another cigarette.
"I'd better start at the beginning. As I said, David came to talk to her the other night. I wouldn't have let him in. I've never had any time for him. I don't like loud-mouthed bullies, and that's all there is to David Potten. But he was quite calm and peaceable, and swore that he only wanted to sit and discuss things in a civilised manner, so I thought, well, it had to happen sometime and somewhere, so it might as well be where I could pick up the pieces afterwards if he started on her. I also thought it might be safer if I was somewhere on the scene to call the police if he started getting violent - he's a violent man, Dr Lane..."
"I've had some acquaintance with the man, Mrs Turnbull, and I formed the same impression," he said quietly, "quite apart from what I've heard from Jamie. Go on."
"Right. Well, they talked for two hours, without raising their voices. It was all pretty evil and bitter. I know, because I was eavesdropping outside the door of the room I put them in." She gave him a brief, wan half-smile. "I'm not ashamed to admit that, because I wanted to pick up anything I could that might concern James. The way those two operate I reckoned I was the only one in the house who would have his interests in mind - that was the other reason I decided to give that bugger houseroom, in fact."
She paused to drink, and lit another cigarette. Lane accepted one, and said, "So what does all this amount to, for Jamie, Mrs Turnbull? I should like to say, incidentally, that I think you have acted most properly, indeed laudably. I don't think there is anything to be remotely ashamed of in listening in to this conversation. And I am glad to find someone else who cares about Jamie sufficiently to act on his behalf. So, the more information you can provide me with, the better equipped we shall be to deal with whatever unpleasantness his parents can devise for the boy."
"The long and the short of it, Dr Lane, is that they're both going to do a bunk. In separate directions, of course. And in the process, they're both going to wash their hands of James. To hear them talking the other night, you'd've thought the poor little beggar didn't exist. And of course, when you're dealing with parents like his, well, he doesn't.
"I don't know where David's going to go, and I don't care. The farther away the better. But I do know that Annabel's laying plans to clear off to Switzerland - she's got a lot of money there - and from there to South Africa. Why anyone should want to go to that benighted, miserable hole God alone knows, but I gather she's got friends there. The reason for all this is that she can see pretty clearly that the papers are going to have a field day when this case comes up - if it does. And if it doesn't, their divorce would be manna from heaven for the local rag, when that comes to court. So Annabel's going to do what comes naturally. She's going to run for it - leaving anybody and everybody holding the baby - in this case, you holding a fifteen-year-old baby."
Lane sat with his lips pursed. Angela watched him closely, a little afraid. When the silence became unbearable she ventured a question. "What will you do, Dr Lane? You and your wife? You're all he's got now."
He sat for a further minute in silence. Then he said, quietly and a little grimly, "We took Jamie in like a waif, Mrs Turnbull. We did that when he was in extremis, because there was no possible alternative. Since then, however, we have come to love him... my wife, I know, loves him as if he were her own, and I feel much the same. His mother has sent us money - generous sums of money - I take it as a sop to her conscience, since she appears to have little feeling for the boy." He paused, and sighed heavily. "Should your prediction as to her intentions prove accurate, we should undoubtedly continue to care for him for as long as he needed us, supposing that we were allowed to do so. We should be able to do that whether or not his mother were to continue to contribute to his maintenance. If both parents are planning to disappear, I imagine that they must also intend to take their money with them, and therefore to desert Jamie altogether. I must say, I should expect no better of them, judging by my own limited acquaintance of them. In such circumstances, it would not be beyond us to stand in loco parentis."
Angela bounded out of her chair and clapped her hands. "I knew you'd be a brick!" she exclaimed. "I knew you'd be the one person to be relied on. Okay, Dr Lane," she went on more quietly, dropping back onto the edge of her chair and looking intently at him. "I sat up with Annabel half the night after I found out what was afoot, trying
to persuade her that she owed someone something. I got nowhere, as you might expect. So what I'm really here to tell you is this: if she does run out on the poor kid, and you need any help, you can come to me for anything I'm good for. Which is mostly money. Because here's the next blow.
"David is going to withdraw him from this school. That's the first thing he thought of, and he'd've done it already if the fees for this term weren't paid already. So you can take it from me that the kid'll be taken out in the near future. Annabel might have coughed up for him, if she hadn't been so busy working out how to get as much of David's money away with her, along with her own. I had a long session with her the other night, in the course of which I told her pretty explicitly what I thought of her. I'm doing my best to persuade her to lay out a decent amount for the boy, whatever she's planning to do on her own account; but I'm not having a lot of luck so far, apart from the bit she unbelted and sent you yesterday...
"So, what I want you to know, Dr Lane, is that if David tries to do the dirty on James and withdraw him, and if Annabel runs for it before I can browbeat her into doing something decent for once in her worthless life - which I shall do my bloody damnedest to do - if that happens, Dr Lane, well, I screwed a pretty fair settlement out of my old man when I divorced him. He wasn't exactly a billionaire, but he was pretty well britched, and I got a fair slice of it - enough to see me out even if I had to subsidise Annabel's drinking for longer than I intend to." She suddenly sank into her armchair, and all the energy seemed to run out of her. She lay back for a moment, as if regrouping. Finally she said, quietly, "If you're ever in want of the kid's fees, or if you need money for anything to do with him, call me. I'll send you a blank cheque by the next post." She lay back again, seeming drained.
Dr Lane sat back and smoked his cigarette in silence for some time, marvelling at what he had just heard. He had not known quite what to expect, but he had never expected a munificent offer, let alone one made in the throwaway fashion in which Angela had finally made it - almost as if it was an impulse that she felt slightly ashamed of. Finally, he leaned forward and put a hand on her expensively-tailored shoulder. "Mrs Turnbull, I thank you, most profoundly and sincerely. Jamie would be most moved to know that he has such staunch and selfless friends..."
"Don't you go telling him anything about all this," she yelped. "I don't want him being grateful..."
"I shall say nothing whatsoever, Mrs Turnbull," Lane said quietly, "unless you permit me to do so. But you can't prevent me from being grateful. If I may ask it of you, please do what you can to persuade Jamie's mother that she owes him some kind of duty. She may thank you for it at some time later on. But if - if she does as you suspect she is planning to do, well, probably there is nothing lost, after all. And now, may I get you another coffee, perhaps?"
"You'll be wanting to get back to your school," she said softly from the depths of her chair. "But I suppose you couldn't run to a drink, could you?"
"Would you like a scotch?" he said, smiling slowly. "I think I should rather like a small one myself."
"You couldn't make it a large one for me, I suppose?" she said.
***
The next few days brought a gradual and much-needed calm. Jamie, with the resilience of his youth, began to settle down a little. Christopher's letters arrived each morning, and Jamie would give a shy little smile as he carried them off to his room. The Lanes, still not completely sure they weren't playing with fire, would grimace at each other, but generally they were pleased with the way he had accepted the state of affairs.
A few days after his conversation with Angela Turnbull, Lane received a telephone call from her to say she thought Annabel was about to make her move. But she also said that she had hopes of convincing her of her obligations to her son. "I don't know whether I've brought it home to her or not," she said, "but I hope I've tweaked her conscience enough to get a few bob out of her. There won't be anything else, like affection, or a sense of responsibility, because she's not made that way. But we may be able to lay something down for the kid. I'll keep working on her.
"Meanwhile, David's cleared off. We had a smarmy lawyer here yesterday, wanting to talk about putting the farm on the market. Annabel was half-cut, so I had to stand in for her. I managed to get enough sense out of her to tell him that he could do what he liked so long as she got her half - it's in joint names, much to my surprise. I shouldn't've thought he was the kind to share anything, but then, she may well have put up some of the money when they bought it. I haven't been able to get any details about that sort of thing out of her. I'll keep you posted." Dr Lane found that he was beginning to look forward to her calls, finding her sardonic, bluff manner engaging.
Every morning Jamie and Dr Lane would set off across the field to the school, chatting amiably, and each morning Edith thought she saw a little more normality enter into Jamie's manner. In the evenings he worked at his preparation, and they resumed the pleasant conversations they had got into the habit of enjoying soon after Jamie had first come to them - so long ago, as it seemed to them, though in reality it was no more than a month or two. Dr Lane found himself once again appreciating the boy's quick wit and intelligence, and enjoyed throwing out lines of enquiry for him to follow, looking forward to the results the following evening. Edith hoped it was not a fool's paradise.
One morning, ten days after Angela Turnbull's visit, two things happened. Jamie carried his precious letter off to his room as usual. The Lanes, also as usual, glanced at each other, still not sure that they were doing the right thing by permitting the letters. Yet, as one or other of them had remarked on several occasions, they seemed to be doing no harm; rather a great deal to reconcile Jamie to the fact that he was not able to see his friend. This time however, only a minute or two after disappearing upstairs with the letter, Jamie came back into the breakfast room with distress written all over his face.
"Jamie, darling, what is it?" asked Edith, suspecting strongly that she could guess what was in the letter that day. "It's... it's Christopher," he said in a small, frightened voice. "He's... they... he's got to go to the police station, this morning. They're going to charge him with... with..." His head dropped, he went to her as she rose from her chair, buried his head on her shoulder, and burst into tears.
THREE
"Come in here, Christopher," said Detective Sergeant Bly. He took Christopher's arm and steered him with a kind of gruff gentleness into the charge room. He sat Christopher down in an upright chair in front of a deal table, then went quickly out to the front office to speak to Bob and Audrey Rowe. "It won't take very long, Mr and Mrs Rowe," he said, quite kindly. "I'll come out and speak to you again shortly. Explain the charge, and the procedure, and so on. Get him charged now - better to get it over and done with." He turned to the man standing with the Rowes. "Morning, Mr Hope-Thomson. You representing Christopher?" The man greeted him affably and nodded. "Want to be with him while he's charged?"
"Yes, please," said the man. He turned and smiled reassuringly to the anxious parents, and followed Bly into the charge room. "How d'you feel, Christopher?" Bly asked, looking closely at the boy's pale face.
"I'm not too bad," said Christopher, unable to keep a tremble out of his voice, but doing his best to remain calm and not, Bly thought, making too bad a job of it. Bly sat on the edge of the table and drummed with his fingertips impatiently, waiting for the Station Officer. The solicitor leaned negligently against the wall to one side. After a minute or two a uniformed inspector came in. '"Lo, Dick," he said, and Bly murmured, "Mornin', Alan." The inspector nodded civilly towards the solicitor, seated himself across the table from Christopher and dumped a heavy book and a fat bundle of forms in front of him. "Right, let's get on with it," he said to no one in particular.
In front of him was a blackened, battered clip-board, which looked as if it had been gnawed by mice at the comers. Fastened to it was a large white form, with a yellow copy underneath it and a pink one beneath that. The inspector smoothed the forms
flat and took a ballpoint pen from the breast pocket of his uniform jacket. "Right then," he said, looking at Christopher for the first time, "you're Christopher Martin Rowe?"
"Yes," said Christopher.
"All right, then, Mr Rowe, you are charged that on one or more dates between the fourth and the tenth of last month, you committed buggery with a male person under the age of twenty-one years, namely James Potten, you yourself also being under the age of twenty-one years, contrary to section 12, sub-section 1 of the Sexual Offences Act, 1956, as amended by the Sexual Offences Act, 1967. Do you understand the charge?"
"Yes," said Christopher quietly.
"Very well, then. I must caution you that you are not obliged to say anything in answer to this charge, but that anything you do say will be taken down in writing, and may be given in evidence." The inspector laid down his pen and glanced expressionlessly across the table at Christopher. After a few seconds he picked his pen up again and murmured, "Nothing said" to himself as he wrote in another section of the big white form. He filled in several boxes, ending by scrawling a large, flamboyant signature at the foot. When he had finished writing he laid the pen down and looked across at Christopher again. "Okay," he said, not unkindly. "You understand what all this means?"
"Yes," muttered Christopher again.
"Right. Well, DS Bly and Mr Hope-Thomson here will talk to you and your parents before you go. You will appear before the magistrates, here in Oldacre, the day after tomorrow, at ten a.m. This offence is triable on indictment -you know what that means?" Christopher looked mutely across at him, not trusting himself to speak. The inspector stared at him for a moment. "It means that you can only be tried by a judge and jury, at the Crown Court. You have to appear before the magistrates for committal for trial. They can't try you themselves," he went on, again speaking quite kindly. "They hear the evidence and decide if there's a case for you to answer. DS Bly and your solicitor will explain it all to you." He glanced up at the detective for confirmation, and Bly nodded at Christopher.
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