Belatedly, he had understood that you could not buy love, but gifts had brought him brief spells of peace.
Now, as he sat up in bed, the events of the previous night came shatteringly back to him. He checked quickly that Verity was not beside him. Reassured, he sighed with relief; much of his pleasure, these days, came from absence of strife, not from any positive experience. Now there was time to shower, shave and dress before he need face her, and time to telephone the police from the bedroom extension before they resumed the search for Terry.
He went into the bathroom, and afterwards looked into the boy’s room: for all he knew, Terry had done another flit, though he had seemed, like his mother, to be out for the count.
He was still asleep, one hand now exposed, very grubby, hanging over the side of the bed. A scruffy teddy bear lay on the floor, no doubt pushed out during the night. He was still a vulnerable little boy, thought Richard, and the victim of his genetic inheritance. Richard had formed a picture of his absent father as a violent brute; it had occurred to him only recently that this might not be an accurate portrait of his predecessor and that the two boys’ temperaments could have been handed to them by their mother.
He returned to his room, closed the door, dressed, and then rang the police to report the runaway’s safe return.
An officer would be round to hear what Terry had to say for himself.
‘Don’t hurry,’ Richard said. ‘He’s still asleep, and so’s his mother. They need their rest.’
He won time, but not much. During the interval before the police arrived, he remembered the other boy, Mark. Was he still missing, or had he, also, sneaked home to bed?
The police were gentle with Terry.
He was asleep when they arrived, but Richard had roused Verity, led her upstairs, and made her have a shower to sober up and regain some control before they came. During this, she managed to take in the fact that Terry was safe. She made a lot of noise, wailing and swearing as the water hit her, and Justin woke up. He hated her exhibitionism and hysteria, but he blamed Richard for them and wove a fantasy in which he saved her by becoming the protégé of a rich patron – sex indeterminate in the dream – sometimes a Michael Jackson figure and sometimes a woman not unlike the Queen, grey-haired and gracious. He had once seen her when she opened a hospital wing near his school before they came to Haverscot and he, with other children, stood in the street waving a flag. Lately, these dreams were fading; he was too old for fairy tales and had begun to think more in terms of becoming a pop singer and making a million, or of major theft. He knew boys who stole successfully. If you took cars, you could sell them for a bomb. Before now, he’d nicked bars of chocolate, magazines, and even audio cassettes without being caught.
The discord at home frightened him. Though he did not want to acknowledge it, he could remember shouting matches between his parents, blows exchanged, his father as well as his mother being bruised and even cut about the face and arms. When he was younger, he had simply thought her unlucky in her choice of husbands; now, he was beginning to recognise, though he did not accept it, Richard’s patience, but he still blamed his stepfather for provoking scenes.
He got dressed quickly and went downstairs, where he found there were no Coco-Pops, so he had to have Rice Krispies, Terry’s favourite. He took his plate into the playroom and turned on the television, volume up. The Big Breakfast programme drowned out other noise and he was still watching it when the police officers rang the front doorbell.
Meanwhile, Richard had instructed Terry to get washed and dressed. Verity had put on black leggings and a long black sweater. She brushed her damp, unkempt hair which in certain lights glinted like metal from the rinse she used. She styled it so that it fell over her face, peering out between the frizzy strands in the little-girl-lost mode which Richard knew so well. He sighed. Early in their acquaintance it had deceived him, and it might deceive the police, too. Perhaps that would be just as well. He wondered if they would smell alcohol on her breath; she had brushed her teeth with mint-flavoured toothpaste.
The interview had best be conducted in the drawing-room. Richard had tidied it, plumped up the cushions and drawn the curtains while Verity and Terry were dressing. He opened the windows briefly, letting in a blast of cold, damp winter air. From the playroom came the sound of Justin’s television programme: well, that meant he would keep out of the way, thought Richard grimly.
After a good night’s sleep, Terry had almost forgotten his adventures of the previous day and thought a mere scolding from Richard for being late would be his only punishment; in fact, Richard had said nothing to him beyond ordering him to wash and dress. But when he was told to go into the drawing-room and saw two uniformed police officers, one male and one female, already in the room, with his mother, he turned to flee. Richard, however, stood behind him, barring the doorway.
He looked towards his mother. She would save him and protect him. But she was sitting on the sofa, hiding behind her hair as she dabbed at her eyes with a pink tissue. He thought of running to her, flinging himself against her, wanting to be hugged, as had happened when he was small and she was in a receptive mood; these days, you could never be sure how she would respond, so he did not try it. He glanced at the police officers, both of whom were standing up. Neither smiled at him.
Verity was so used to casting herself in the role of victim that she could not, now, make any effort to imagine what he was feeling. She let her tears brim over.
‘Oh, Terry, how could you do this to me? You are a wicked, wicked boy,’ she sobbed.
‘He’s safe, Mrs Gardner, that’s the main thing,’ said Sergeant Dixon, the woman officer. ‘Sit down, Terry.’
Terry gave her another quick inspection. She was the enemy, of course, but she had spoken quietly and didn’t seem too cross. The policeman with her was the one who came to talk to them at school, warning them about strangers offering lifts in cars, and drugs, and all that stuff. He was all right, Terry had grudgingly to admit.
‘Now, Terry,’ said PC Withers. ‘Can you tell me where you were at about half-past five yesterday afternoon?’
‘Out,’ said Terry, looking at the ground.
‘Out where?’
‘I’d been in the park. I had permission,’ Terry said, his tone now aggrieved.
‘Did you come straight home?’
‘Er—’ Terry hesitated. He remembered the feel of the milk bottle in his hand and the satisfying crash of glass as it hit the window. They couldn’t know that it was him. Could they?
‘Did you come home by way of Greenham Road?’ asked Sergeant Dixon.
‘I might have,’ Terry said.
‘Do you know anything about a broken window at number forty-seven, Greenham Road?’
Terry did not answer.
‘A boy was seen there, Terry, running away, with a football,’ said Withers.
‘It might have been another boy,’ said Verity.
‘It might have been,’ Withers agreed. ‘Was it, Terry? You’d been in the park earlier, with your football, hadn’t you?’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ asked Terry. ‘He said I could go.’ Saying this, he glared at his stepfather.
‘You were told to be back before dark,’ said Richard.
‘Now, Terry, someone thinks it was you who broke that window,’ Withers said. ‘OK, you were late going home, but Greenham Road isn’t on your way back from the park. Why did you go there?’
Did the police know about the broken windscreen and the other damaged car? Were they to be blamed for that? The old woman had said they hadn’t done it but what if those two men had told a different story? Terry felt trapped.
‘I can go that way if I like,’ he said.
‘Yes, of course you can, but you mustn’t break windows,’ Withers said.
‘It’s you says I did it, not me,’ said Terry.
‘Why didn’t you come straight home, Terry?’ asked Sergeant Dixon.
‘I went to see a friend,’ sai
d Terry promptly.
‘What friend?’
‘Mark,’ said Terry promptly.
‘Mark Conway?’ Sergeant Dixon needed to be clear.
‘He doesn’t live in that direction, and he says you parted in the park,’ said Withers.
‘He’s lying,’ came the instant answer.
‘So everyone’s lying except you, eh?’
‘Must be.’ Terry yawned.
‘When did you come home? You weren’t here when everyone else went to bed,’ said Sergeant Dixon.
‘Later,’ said Terry, forced to speak the truth at last.
‘Didn’t you know your parents would be worried? It was dark and you were meant to be in before dark? What were you doing?’
‘I was frightened,’ Terry muttered.
‘What of?’
‘They’d be angry. He’d be angry.’ Terry glowered at Richard, but his lower lip quivered. Justin had it in for Richard, but he’d been decent enough to Terry.
‘Why? Because you were late?’
‘Yes.’
‘But why were you late? Wasn’t it because you’d broken the window and were afraid of being found out?’
Terry did not answer.
‘Where did you go before coming home?’
Now Terry could be pleased with himself, because they hadn’t caught him out.
‘I hid in the tree house and then in Cat’s car,’ he said smugly. ‘I came over the fence,’ he added. ‘Justin and me sometimes do.’ It was Justin who had banged strong nails into the fence posts so that it was possible to clamber over the tall fence in both directions. Terry had hidden in the churchyard first, but it had been cold and wet out there, and he’d begun to imagine ghosts. There’d been a service going on, with quite nice singing, a bit of which he could hear, and he’d realised people would soon be leaving. They might find him there, like that boy in that film when the convict caught him. Cat had made them watch it. He said it was a classic. It hadn’t been too bad, in parts, but he’d thought the mad old woman stupid. While he was in the tree he’d heard cars coming and going, and knew that he was being hunted; only when all was quiet had he got into the car. Luckily, Cat hadn’t locked it, nor the garage, though usually he did.
‘Cat?’ queried Sergeant Dixon, though she understood who was meant.
‘The boys call me that,’ said Richard, adding, as if it gave the reason, ‘I’m their stepfather.’
‘I see,’ said the sergeant.
‘Greg took my ball,’ said Terry at last. ‘In the park. Mark will tell you.’
Mark hadn’t mentioned it.
‘So that made you angry, did it?’ Withers asked.
‘Yeah. He’d no right. He kicked it in the road,’ said Terry. Let Greg talk himself out of what happened after that; he’d think the men had shopped him. Maybe they had.
‘Did he?’ asked Withers.
‘Yeah – and it caused a crash,’ said Terry, speaking now with animation. ‘It hit a car and the driver hit another car. The drivers blamed us. Me and Mark. But some old woman said it wasn’t us. All I wanted was my ball back,’ he ended, looking righteous.
‘But you got it back.’ It was a statement.’Yeah.’
‘Where is it now?’
‘In my room.’ During his adventures, he hadn’t forgotten it. He’d clutched it all the time, even as he threw the bottle, and had tossed it over the fence before he climbed it himself. It had rolled only a short distance into the wet, tussocky grass under the trees, and was easily retrieved.
‘You wanted to get at Greg for taking it, didn’t you?’ said Withers.
Terry did not answer. He stared at the floor. There was a dull mark on the carpet, a wine stain. Terry knew well enough what had caused it: Mum at the bottle again.
‘Breaking the window meant aggravation for Greg’s parents,’ Withers was saying. ‘They hadn’t been tormenting you. Why should they be made to suffer because their lad had been getting at you?’
Terry shrugged.
‘It was there,’ he said.
‘What was?’
‘The milk bottle.’
‘So it was easy?’
‘Yeah.’
What would he have done if there hadn’t been a bottle handy? All the adults wondered, even Verity, and none knew the answer. Maybe he would have been content to mutter curses but he might have found another missile. Round the corner from the house there was a skip containing rubble; if he had been able to climb up and reach into it – and probably he could – Terry might have found a brick.
But he’d admitted his offence, if not in so many words.
That was the big hurdle passed.
‘I’ll make good the broken window, Terry. I’ll pay for the repairs, I mean,’ said Richard. That will make Greg’s parents feel less angry about it. But you mustn’t do anything like that, ever again.’ Through his head ran the notion of docking Terry’s pocket money until the job was paid for, but he banished it because of the fuss Verity would make. The same idea was going through the minds of the two police officers but neither uttered it.
Terry was eyeing Richard from under his lashes. At that moment he looked so like his mother that Richard felt a pang; she had beguiled him when she wore that expression but now she enchanted him no longer, and her cheeks were not soft and smooth, like Terry’s, but gaunt.
He made a decision. The boy must not get away with it.
‘You’ll work it off,’ he said. ‘I’ll deduct whatever it costs from your pocket money, and you can do some jobs about the place. Wash the car. Do some weeding.’ The ground would be too wet for weeding for a couple of months, he thought, but the threat could hang over Terry.
Verity needed some attention now. She would save challenging Richard over the punishment until later; meanwhile, she burst into renewed weeping and moaning.
‘How could you do this, you naughty boy?’ she wailed. ‘You’ve disgraced me.’
‘Now, come along, Mrs Gardner. It’s not the end of the world,’ said Sergeant Dixon. ‘Let’s go into the kitchen and make some tea.’ Despite her rank, there were still moments when it was wise to adopt the stereotyped female role, and if the mother was out of the room, Withers and the boy’s stepfather could give Terry a proper ticking-off.
They did so, with Withers arranging to show Terry the police cells in Haverscot the following Saturday. It wasn’t an offer: he had to be there, and he could bring his brother, if he liked, and his friend Mark Conway. Once the boys saw where suspects were put while being held for questioning, they might be anxious to avoid qualifying. There was always the nearest prison, too; a visit there might be arranged, said Withers.
‘I trust I’ll be able to persuade Mr and Mrs Black not to press charges,’ he added.
As the two police officers left the house, Withers remarked, ‘I wonder who the old woman was who sorted it with the motorists.’
The matter need not be pursued. Once Greg Black’s parents had been persuaded to be merciful, the incident could be considered closed.
They would be cooperative. Their own elder boy was no angel; the daughter, though, was a nice girl and quite clever.
7
Mark, roused during Sunday night to recount his earlier movements, understood that Terry was in trouble for not going straight home after they parted, but was sure no harm had come to him. The police asked about other friends to whose houses Terry might have gone, but Mark could suggest no names, nor did he know of any secret hiding-places where Terry might be taking refuge. He had decided not to mention the two angry men and the damaged cars; lots of things were better kept to oneself, and telling wouldn’t find Terry. He’d be all right; he could look after himself.
The police had not stayed long, and Mark, back in bed, had soon dropped off to sleep again.
His mother had the next day off, and there was time to chat over breakfast. He liked it when she was there when he left; however, she did not humiliate him by escorting him to school on these rare mornings.
‘Just in case you and Mark were worrying,’ she told Susan.
Susan thanked her. The police had a bad name for following up actions of that kind; they did not always let victims of crime know when the perpetrators had been traced, or even brought to trial, much less the result. Here, at least, some consideration had been displayed – and by a woman officer, noted Susan. Neither she nor Mark knew about Terry’s vandalism.
‘He probably was with some other friend,’ said Susan, after telling Mark the news. ‘Does he ever come back here with you?’
Terry hadn’t. Mark never brought friends home, whether or not his mother was there.
‘No,’ he said.
‘It’s all right, if you want to bring a friend in,’ she said. She’d told him this before. ‘I trust you about who you invite.’
She’d always trusted Mark; it was the only way.
‘I’m usually with Steve,’ he said, to reassure her.
That morning, Terry arrived late for school.
‘The police were round at my house last night asking for you,’ Mark told him. ‘Where were you?’
‘My mum thought I’d run away or been kidnapped,’ Terry said. ‘She acts mad sometimes,’ he added. ‘I didn’t go straight home. Why should I? I thought it would be cool to scare them.’
This explanation had just occurred to him. He didn’t think Mark would admire his window-breaking deed, particularly as he had been found out. If you were going to do that sort of thing, you shouldn’t get caught. He wouldn’t tell Mark about the invitation to accompany him to the police station at the weekend. In Terry’s case, the visit was mandatory; Mark might guess that there was more to it than simply going missing for a few hours. The idea that he had caused a commotion was quite satisfying; Terry felt no shame. His mum had been in a right state but that was nothing unusual. He knew his escapade had not earned her approval, but he had won her attention.
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