by Neil Cross
Downstairs, Mel was curled on the sofa, watching Crimewatch. She had lit a cigarette, and threw one to Sam. He caught it with a hand-clapping motion and flopped in the armchair.
He whistled at the ceiling.
‘Jesus,’ he said.
Mel expelled smoke through her nostrils.
‘He’ll be all right.’
‘Oh Christ. I hope so.’
Tears welled in his eyes and he blinked them away.
‘He’s my little boy.’
Mel rubbed his forearm, as if warming it.
‘No, he’s not,’ she said.
Sam knuckled his eyes.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know.’
‘He’s a young man,’ said Mel. ‘He’s a teenager.’
‘I know.’
He went to the kitchen and got himself a whisky.
He woke in time to make them a full English breakfast—sausage, egg, bacon, tomato, hash browns, a fried slice. Jamie came down in his boxer shorts and a T-shirt. It was clear by the obliged way he picked and prodded at the fry-up that he had no appetite.
‘Now,’ said Sam. ‘Go and have a proper shower. None of this dodging the drops business. And wash your hair. With shampoo. And clean your teeth.’
Jamie stamped obligingly upstairs. Sam fussed around, placing pens, pencils, a ruler, a compass and a pocket calculator into Jamie’s schoolbag. He paused, tilted his head. Over the sound of the shower, he could hear Jamie vomiting. He tried not to listen. He turned up the radio and sang along.
He’d rehearsed what he wanted to say, but there was no opportunity to say it. When he went upstairs he found that Jamie, his hair still wet and glossy, was knotting the tie at his throat. When that was done, he tucked the fat end inside his shirt, as children had apparently done since neckties were invented. Sam had no idea why, but he’d done the same. Then Jamie shrugged himself into the blazer. A squirrel was mechanically embroidered on the badge, eating an acorn. Same badge, unchanged for God knew how many years.
Sam wanted to reach out and hug his son and kiss him on the forehead. Instead he leant back, the wall cold on his shoulders, and crossed his arms approvingly.
‘It looks all right.’
Jamie looked down and made pigeon toes.
‘The shoes look stupid.’
‘You chose them.’
‘They’re shoes though. I hate shoes.’
‘You can’t wear trainers every day.’
‘Why not?’
‘Anyway, they’re boots—and they cost a lot of money. They look all right. Christ, you should see what I had to wear.’
‘That was before fashion was invented.’
Sam smiled, but Jamie wasn’t looking and he let it fall.
Jamie’s voice rose and quickened.
‘They look naff. They’re all new.’
‘I don’t know. Scuff them up, then.’
Jamie looked at him.
‘Duh,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to look poor.’
Sam retreated.
At 8.30, the doorbell rang. Sam opened the door to Stuart, who looked tiny and mammalian in his uniform. He’d had his gingery hair cut so it stuck up on the crown. He had not tucked the fat end of his tie into his shirt.
‘All right, Stuart?’
‘All right, Mr Greene?’
‘You coming in?’
‘All right.’
Stuart shambled in, his trousers baggy and gathered at the ankles. He wore new boots identical to Jamie’s.
He sat on the sofa and picked up the remote control.
‘Can I watch some telly?’
‘Of course.’
For a couple of minutes, Sam stood behind him, his arms crossed, and watched.
Then he said, ‘It’s terrible. The first day back.’
Stuart shrugged. From his bag he removed a chocolate Tracker and began to unwrap it.
‘It’s all right.’
‘I used to hate it. I was always really nervous.’
‘We’re a year older now though,’ said Stuart. ‘We’re not the youngest any more.’
‘No,’ said Sam. ‘I suppose not.’
‘It’s them that’ll get the hard time. All the new kids.’
Jamie came clomping downstairs and into the front room.
‘All right, Stu?’
‘All right, Jamie?’
Stuart stuffed the uneaten half of the Tracker into his blazer pocket and wiped his palms on his lapel. He slung his bag over his shoulder.
Jamie said, ‘See you later, Dad.’
Sam wanted to say something. He wanted to clap Jamie manfully on the shoulder and wish him half-ironic good luck, as a good coach might. But Jamie gave every appearance of confidence, of hardly being aware.
So Sam fought the urge to stand in the doorway, watching the boys wander down the street, towards the new term. They were deep in some meaningful conversation about a subject Sam would never be able to understand. He closed the door and went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. While it boiled, he sat on the garden step and smoked a couple of cigarettes. He looked at his watch and wondered what Jamie was up to now, if he’d met his future classmates yet. He went back inside and poured boiling water over a tea bag. He left it there to steep.
When, with a grunt of surprise, he remembered it, the tea was already cold.
When Jamie came home, Sam pretended not to be waiting. But his heart cracked in his chest when the front door slammed. He started to potter in the kitchen, as if he hadn’t spent the last two hours sitting at the breakfast bar smoking, watching the clock, staring into the middle distance.
Jamie looked hot. His hair was in sweaty disarray and the stripy tie was loosened to his sternum. He kicked off his school shoes in the hallway, then went to the fridge and took out a can of Diet Coke.
Sam said, ‘If you’re thirsty, drink water.’
Jamie glugged the can half-empty then replied with a long, fruity belch.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. So?’
‘So, what?’
‘So how was it?’
‘What, school?’
‘Duh. Yeah, school. How was it?’
‘All right.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Did you make any friends?’
Jamie shrugged and drank off the remainder of the can.
‘Nah.’
‘It’s early days yet,’ said Sam. ‘You’ll be all right.’
Jamie shrugged again.
‘I am all right.’
He crushed the can, left it on the worktop and stomped upstairs. Sam listened for the sound of the PlayStation engaging.
He called upstairs for Jamie to hang up his blazer and tie, but when he went up, later, they awaited his attention from an indecorous pile on his son’s bedroom floor. Jamie was playing Tekken. Sam watched from the doorway with the blazer folded over his forearm. Oblivious of his presence, the boy was playing a tiny Oriental woman with an elaborate top-knot. She was comprehensively beating the shit out of a procession of baddies. Sam slipped the blazer on to a wire hanger and hung it from the door handle. Its skirts brushed the floor. Then he went back downstairs.
5
Agartha Barrow was a bus ride away, on the edge of Hollyhead.
It was a Victorian hospital complex, centred round a garden square. Many of its annexes had fallen into disuse and disrepair. Its main function now was as a Low Secure Psychiatric Intensive Care Unit. Although it stood close to a main road and a busy shopping street, the complex had a faded, disused air, like a place about to be shut down.
But Sam had needed a job, not least because he needed something to do, or risk going mad himself. His former boss had placed a few phone calls on his behalf, an
d a position was found for him at Agartha, subject to the usual formalities and a number of qualifications. The position was at a lower rating and at a lower wage than he had become accustomed to, and the vacancy didn’t start until October. Agartha was, therefore, getting an experienced member of staff, cheap and on its own terms. Sam didn’t mind.
On his first morning, he gave an intra-muscular injection of Lorazepam, followed by one of haloperiodol, into the arse of a man with an eye tattooed on each buttock. They watched Sam while he jabbed.
On Tuesday he was punched by a manic-depressive prostitute, the first time he had been successfully assaulted since he qualified, more than a decade before.
By Friday, he was feeling more on top of things and Mel came to meet him for lunch. Tired, he shuffled to reception like a patient. Mel was wearing new jeans and an old leather coat that flared at the waist and fell to her ankles. She’d done her hair and make-up.
Sam wrestled himself into his overcoat and wound the scarf round his neck, then pecked Mel briskly on the cheek. It was cold. She linked her arm through his. He felt the light, all-seeing gaze of Molly the receptionist pass across them like a zephyr. He turned to face her, so quickly that Mel stumbled in her heels.
‘Molly,’ he said, ‘this is Melanie. My sister.’
Molly said she was delighted to meet Mel, although this did not, strictly, appear to be true. Then Sam led Mel through the inappropriately monumental doors. They walked through the car park, the white writing on blue signs, past the derelict outbuildings, through the Victorian gates and on to Wick Road. At the gates, Mel turned and wrapped her coat more tightly around herself. As the cold wind blew at her skirts, she looked at the squat, stone-built hospital.
She said, ‘I don’t know how you put up with it.’
Sam buried his hands in his pockets.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You get used to it.’
‘It’s got an atmosphere.’
‘What kind of atmosphere?’
She rooted round in her bag and took out her cigarettes. She put one in the corner of her mouth and lit it with a disposable Bic.
‘I don’t know.’
He grabbed her wrist and tugged her in the direction of the road, but she hung back. He let go and she nearly lost her balance, going ankle-deep into a rotting pile of leaves.
‘It’s creepy,’ she said, righting herself.
‘It is not,’ he said. ‘It’s a hospital. It’s full of people who need help, that’s all. It could be you or me one day.’
‘Not bloody likely.’
‘You’d be surprised. It happens to normal people, you know.’
‘Janet’s a mad cow,’ said Mel. ‘She’s on Prozac.’
‘There you go. Same thing.’
‘She’s mad though.’
‘We don’t call it that, Mel.’
Her eyes narrowed at the corners, as if this was a point hardly worth debating.
She said, ‘Have you got any murderers?’
‘It’s not Broadmoor.’
‘But you’ve got killers in there.’
‘Only boring ones.’
‘How can a murderer be boring?’
‘You’d understand if you met them.’
‘Can I?’
‘Can you what?’
‘Meet them.’
‘No.’
He guided her by the shoulder along the road.
‘Look, they’re sad little men. They’ve all been fucked since Day One. Since before that—since conception. Sad cases. Substance abusers, wife-beaters. Alcoholics. Scared, depressed, violent little men.’
She linked her arm back through his, as if it wasn’t funny any more, the thought of the cowed, blank-eyed rapists growing fat and still behind those foot-thick walls.
They walked silently to the café, an Italian on the corner with Lacey Road. At lunchtimes it was always frantic and full; office workers queued at the chrome and glass counter, shouting over the babble to describe whatever over-elaborate sandwich their status demanded. In the far corner were arranged five tables, like the face of a die. Mel and Sam pressed through the clamour of workers and squeezed into the single free table, closest to the window. They ordered cappuccinos from a passing, harried young waitress.
They studied laminated menus. The coffees arrived quickly and they took the opportunity to order food. The café’s frantic pace hid an underlying efficiency and lunch arrived in a few minutes, unevenly heated as if in a microwave. Mel dug in. When she looked up, she had a tomato sauce moustache. Sam took a paper napkin from the chromium dispenser, crunched it into a ball and handed it to her. He pointed to his pursed lips to show where the problem was. Mel dabbed at her mouth until he gave her the all-clear, and left the crumpled napkin on the table.
‘So,’ she said. ‘How is it, then? Apart from the murderers are boring.’
‘I’m not even working with them,’ he said.
‘Who are you working with?’
‘Just the general loonies.’
‘So how are the general loonies?’
He smiled. ‘They’re fine. You’d be surprised how many of them are probably wandering round the supermarket right now.’
He nodded his head at the Tesco Metro across the road.
He drained his coffee and lit a cigarette. His sandwich lay in two uneaten halves on his plate.
He said, ‘It’s good to be back at work. You know how it is. It’s been a long time.’
‘Not that long.’
‘It wouldn’t seem like a long time to you, Melanie, no.’
‘Life’s too short.’
He agreed, nodding, and sipped coffee.
Mel froze.
‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘It’s just an expression.’
He smiled, to show he hadn’t taken offence. He hadn’t, but the smile felt wooden anyway and he let it fall. He rubbed his eyes.
‘Christ,’ he said. ‘I’m so tired. I forgot what it was like.’
‘You’re bound to be tired, the first week back. First day of term.’
He ordered two more coffees.
He said, ‘I hope I can find a more relaxing place to have lunch.’
Mel looked around.
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘It makes a change. I like it.’
‘I can hardly hear myself think.’
‘Nice lasagne though.’
She prodded the viscous, yellow and orange square as if she doubted her own words.
‘It’s a bit busy,’ said Sam. ‘Is all I’m saying.’
Mel pushed aside the remains of her meal and lighted a cigarette.
She said, ‘I saw Jamie the other day.’
‘Yeah? He didn’t say.’
‘He wouldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘It was about quarter to eleven on Wednesday morning,’ she said. ‘He was sitting on a wall round the back of the Dolphin Centre. By the car park.’
‘What was he doing?’
‘Nothing. Playing with the GameBoy or something.’
‘That’s not what I mean.’
‘Well, what do you think he was doing?’
‘Jesus,’ said Sam. He looked mournfully down at his sandwich. ‘He’s not been there a term yet. He’s got to give the place a chance.’
‘Don’t be like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘You sound like Dad.’
‘I do not sound like Dad.’
He forced himself to calm down.
‘Fuck,’ he said.
He puffed at his cigarette.
‘Christ. What does he think he was doing?’
‘I don’t know what they call it now,’ she said. ‘Probably something American—skipping class? Anyway, that’s what he was doing. He was knocki
ng off.’
She ground out her cigarette and watched people come and go along Wick Road.
She said, ‘He was all by himself.’
Something, a physical pain, lanced through Sam’s stomach. He winced and kept his eyes closed for several seconds.
Mel said, ‘Don’t go off the deep end.’
‘I’m not planning to.’ He watched tiny bubbles pop in the frothy base of his empty mug. ‘What did you say to him?’
‘Nothing.’ She looked distracted. She was watching the people pass heedlessly by, as if they were projected on a screen. ‘I don’t even know if he saw me. He probably didn’t. He was playing Pac-Man or whatever. And I didn’t want to embarrass him. So I just walked by on the other side of the road. I’d only popped out to go round the NSS to get some fags.’
Sam rubbed his eyes. ‘What do I do?’
‘Don’t let on,’ she said. ‘Find out what’s wrong. Speak to his form tutor or something.’
The second coffees arrived. Sam took a good, long swig.
The noise and bustle were oppressive, like background sounds clattering too loudly through cheap speakers. They finished their lunch in silence. Mel waited outside, stamping her feet, while Sam paid the bill.
He joined her outside.
He said, ‘I didn’t know Janet was on anti-depressants.’
‘Has been for years. She’s always bloody depressed. She’s got no whatsit—self-esteem.’
His cheeks felt cold and raw.
‘Then perhaps we should stop calling her Fat Janet.’
‘We don’t, not to her face.’
‘Still.’
‘She needs to sort her life out,’ said Mel.
‘Yeah,’ said Sam.
‘Mad as a spanner,’ said Mel.
She walked with him to the hospital gates. The bus stop was just across the road. Its convenience had prevented Sam from getting round to buying a car. He needed to piss. He looked through the iron gates at the ugly, black stone building.
He said, ‘I don’t know what to do.’
She squeezed his upper arm.
‘You’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘You’re a good dad.’
‘You think so?’
‘Brilliant.’
He wished he knew if she meant it. He could never tell, not even after all this time.
‘Right,’ he said, and glanced redundantly at his watch. He was fifteen minutes late.
