Coming Down

by Carrie Elks

  When I get to the clinic it’s mayhem. The lobby is full of kids, shouting out questions at a harassed-looking Niall. His face lights up when he sees me walk into the room. Smiling, he takes a step forward and reaches for my hand. “You’re here.”

  “Of course I am. And the bus is outside,” I say.

  A look of relief washes over him. Does he even know what he’s let himself in for? We may have limited this expedition to ten children—mostly so we can all fit in one minibus—but that’s still a lot of bodies to be following around one very large art gallery.

  He gives the impression he hasn’t had a lot to do with children. Looks on them as mini-adults. Which is great when you’re in the classroom; it makes them feel mature and liked, and that’s why they respond to him so well. But when we’re out in public, in the middle of a gallery that he has associations with… not quite so good.

  “Let’s go. Come on, everybody.” Niall heads for the door and they all follow him. Cameron Gibbs pushes everybody out of the way and runs toward the bus, calling dibs on the back seat. There are a few stragglers who hang back with me, afraid of the older boys and their over-eagerness.

  Allegra folds her hand around mine. “Shall we go?”

  “Sure, lead the way.”

  Predictably, there’s a pile-up in the minibus as everybody fights for seats. I end up having to pull Cameron Gibbs off another boy. His hand has already curled into a pretty sizeable fist. I whisper in his ear that I’m watching him, and he rolls his eyes at me.

  Cameron has one of those unfortunate faces. A thin, almost mean mouth which, combined with a heavy brow and narrow eyes, serves to make him look like a thug in training. He could be the sweetest kid in the world—which he isn’t—and still he’d be the first to get into trouble. Dragged to the headmaster’s room after a fight, or up in front of a magistrate after a robbery. A usual suspect waiting to happen.

  Now he’s growing into his looks. On the cusp of puberty, he’s developing an air of menace about him. I’m unsure how much of it is bluster and how much is malevolence, but he’s changing in front of my eyes. Whenever he’s around there’s an edge to the atmosphere. I hate that I can’t stop him from growing up this way.

  After everybody’s sat down, I grab the only seat left—next to Niall. He looks up from his phone and smiles warmly at me.

  “You’re good at that.”

  “Shouting at kids?”

  “No, you’re good at dealing with them. You know what to say and how to say it. I can tell they trust you.”

  Farther back in the minibus, Cameron is still glowering. While we were having words somebody else stole his seat. He’s not happy about it at all.

  “Some of them do,” I say.

  “Are you planning to have kids of your own?” he asks. His blue eyes stare right at me. It’s the kind of easy question anybody might ask.

  “No.” If I left it at that, maybe all would be well. But I’m me, and I find the need to fill in the blanks. I never could stand silence. “Simon doesn’t want any more children.”

  His brows rise up. “That doesn’t seem fair if you want some. A bit selfish.”

  My reply is crisp. Blunt. “He told me he didn’t want any before we got married.” I agreed to it, too. Back then, children weren’t even on my radar. The world still felt like a nightmare place. Bringing children into it would be a selfish act. But now… I’m not sure I feel the same way.

  Simon does, though. That’s why I could never tell him about my volte-face. I’d be breaking our agreement.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” He gives my hand a squeeze. “You’d make a fantastic ma.”

  The fire in my stomach burns out, replaced by a huge lump in my throat. I try not to choke up, but it’s hard when I’m being comforted by the man who’s stirred everything up. We’re sitting close, his thigh warm against mine, his upper arm pressed into my bicep. Any anger I felt a moment ago has dissipated with his kind words, until all I’m left with is longing. It would be so easy to turn to him, to bury my head in his shoulder and let him hug me until everything else disappeared.

  I never did choose easy. Perhaps it’s for the best.

  Niall and I imploded like a dying star, burning brightly one moment then fading into blackness the next. That sort of excitement, emotional highs and lows, may be something to live for when you’re a teenager. Now, though, I should long for comfort, for steadiness, for Simon.

  I need to keep reminding myself of that.

  We get to the Tate Modern about half an hour later. It’s an amazing building. Converted from a decommissioned power station in the 1990s, the brown-brick edifice has a huge chimney rising up from its almost Art-Deco roof. Seated on the edge of the South Bank, it is virtually opposite St Paul’s Cathedral, which rises majestically from the north. The kids get all excited when they see the Millennium Bridge over the Thames that connects the two, recognising it from a Harry Potter movie. A couple of them start to run to the steps.

  “Oy, get back here.” It’s amazing how easily the Essex tinge comes back to my voice. “Cameron Gibbs, get down from there now.” He’s already made it to the top of the stairs, and is mucking about with all the padlocks that lovers have attached to the rails.

  Somehow, we manage to herd them all into the building. Niall speaks with the woman at the information desk, and she smiles back at him, handing him a book to fill in. When he comes back, we all follow, heading for the engine room.

  The giant turbine hall is in the middle of the building, accessible from stone steps leading down to the recessed floor. Where engines once blasted out energy, now there is space and light. It’s the main installation of the gallery. The kids start to run down the stairs and we quickly follow after them. I try not to smile as they look around.

  “Where’re the paintings?” Cameron Gibbs asks, standing on the bottom step.

  “There is no painting. This is an installation,” Niall replies. “Sometimes there are sculptures, sometimes images projected on screens.”

  “So where’s the fuckin’ art then?” Cameron spits out. He’s still annoyed with me.

  I catch Niall’s eye. Like me, he looks torn between amusement and irritation.

  “The people are the installation,” he says. “If you go down there, they’ll interact with you. The artist has planned it all out.”

  “I’m not talking to fucking strangers.”

  I begin to lose my patience. “Language, Cameron.” Some of the younger children are staring at him with their mouths open. “We’re out in public.”

  “All I’m saying is,” Cameron continues, his voice almost patient, “if this is fucking art, then my street’s a bleedin’ masterpiece. All you have to do is come over and we’ll talk to you for nothing. How much does somebody get paid for something like this anyway? It’s like that naked geezer, innit?”

  I frown for a moment, before working it out. “You mean The Emperor’s New Clothes?”

  “I mean money for old bloody rope. Seriously, if this is art then I don’t want any of it.” Cameron turns around and wanders off into the crowd of people. Do the actors know what they’ve let themselves in for?

  “He’s some kid.” Niall and I walk into the main room. “Not backward at coming forward.”

  “Were you at his age?”

  Niall laughs. “Not really. I was the scourge of the neighbourhood. My ma used to pull her hair out whenever I was brought back by a Garda or one of the neighbours. Luckily, I grew out of it.”

  “You weren’t one for authority at university, either,” I point out. “Smoking dope in halls, breaking into buildings at night.”

  “Ah, but that was all in the name of art. It served a higher purpose.”

  “What purpose?” He’s got me interested now. I remember back to those days with a smile on my face. That doesn’t happen very often.

  “Mostly getting a girl naked.”

  What can I say to that? Apart from the fact he didn’t need to break into a build
ing to get me naked. I practically tore my clothes off every time we were together.

  “Shall we go and round them up? There’s only another hour or so.” I change the subject quickly.

  He smiles easily. “Sure. I thought we’d go around the Abstract Impressionists. Show them some Rothko and Monet.” His face lights up, as if an idea has come into his mind. “Hey, you should do the talking; you’re the one with the Art History degree.”

  “I don’t have a degree,” I point out. “I never finished.”

  And there it is. Our past seems to seep into everything. There’s a reason I didn’t finish, one we’re both more than aware of. It makes for awkward conversation.

  “Well, we can share the burden.”

  We’re about half an hour into the gallery when I decide to do a quick headcount. Trying to get them all to stand still is easier said than done. Eventually, I manage to tap each child gently on the shoulder as I count them off, making my way up to ten.

  Except I only get to nine.

  Low-level panic starts to twist in my stomach as I do a recount. Still nine. When I meet Niall’s eyes he can see something’s wrong.

  “Who’s missing?” I don’t know if I’m asking him, myself or the children. “There’s only nine of you.” I glance over at Allegra, who’s standing next to Niall. Thank God she’s okay.

  The kids start murmuring but none of them are talking to me. “Come on, which one of you knows something?”

  Twelve-year-old Maisie Weeks catches my eye. “Cameron walked off about ten minutes ago.”

  I swallow hard. “He walked off?”

  She shrugs. “Yeah, he said this was boring and he was going to find something better to do.”

  I catch Niall’s eye. “We’re in the middle of London. He could be anywhere.” I know I sound shrill. Sheer panic has raised my voice by an octave.

  He puts a calming hand on my shoulder. “The likelihood is he’s either still in here or on the bridge. Let’s go down to the information stand and see if they’ve seen him. They might have CCTV.”

  So we all troop back to the entrance. This time I walk at the back of the group, afraid to lose anybody else. Niall leads the way; Allegra still stuck beside him for some reason. I can see her chatting away to him, which is really unusual. After her experiences with her mum’s boyfriend she doesn’t usually take well to men.

  All is quiet when we get to the information booth. I make the kids stand in twos while Niall and Allegra go up to the woman standing there. He talks rapidly to the lady behind the desk, then nods as she answers. Then she picks up a telephone and makes a call. How did we manage to lose one of them so easily? There’s a huge river practically outside the building, and I’m trying to ignore the thought of him falling in.

  My heart hammers against my chest when Niall walks back over. It speeds up when I see the expression on his face.

  “Bad news, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, God. Is he hurt?”

  “Hardly. He’s been caught nicking stuff from the shop. They’ve called the police.”

  Oh shit. Suddenly, this seems so much worse than just playing about on the bridge. This is serious. “Can I see him?”

  “I’ll ask.”

  A few minutes later I’m being led down to the security office. I’ve left Niall behind with the kids, with strict instructions to get them in the bus, and stop for McDonald’s as he promised. They won’t give him any problems—they were all downbeat and morose when I left them. Cameron’s put a dampener on everybody’s day.

  The head of security—a man whose uniform seems practically painted on his plump body—takes me aside and explains Cameron was caught stealing a £50 ornament. He’d pushed it down inside his hoodie before he was caught. It’s all on camera. The guard tells me it’s their policy to press charges, and I nod sagely, wondering if it’s worth begging on Cameron’s behalf.

  Then I see him sitting in the office, his feet up on his chair and his arms crossed over his chest. He’s got this aura of bravado, wears it like a suit of armour, and I wonder if being taken to the station is the worst thing that can possibly happen. I’m not a therapist, and I’m definitely not a child psychologist, but Cameron’s on a track that can only lead to a life I don’t want for him. So I take the seat the manager offers and we wait almost an hour for the police to arrive.

  8

  Cameron stares at the wall with dry eyes, his thin lips pulled tightly across gritted teeth. Following his gaze, I search for the thing that’s dragging his attention away from the sergeant sitting opposite him, but the only thing there is the pockmarked, steel-coloured wall. The paint is thick, shiny and dull, dull, dull.

  If Dulux made it they’d probably call it ‘Suicide Grey’.

  He’s scared, I know he is. Beneath the cockiness and swagger that form a tight shell around his body there’s a frightened little kid. I know it from the occasional look he gives me, and from the way his eyes soften and liquefy when they tell him his rights. It’s that little kid that keeps me here, sitting beside him as a responsible adult, trying to get him to answer the questions.

  “We’ve got CCTV evidence,” Sergeant Collier says. “Shows you stuffing that paperweight in your pocket like it’s a Mars bar. Are you still denying it?”

  Cameron shrugs and I want to shake him. His lack of cooperation is infuriating. Not only to the policeman, whose narrow eyes show the impatience of a man who is tired of being lied to. I, too, want him to hurry up, to admit to the crime and let them get on with it. Simon was expecting me home an hour ago. I’ve not had the chance to call him or send him a message. I’m going to be in big trouble when I finally do.

  “Cameron, maybe you should answer his questions.”

  He folds his arms tightly across his pigeon chest and flashes his bleached blue gaze across the room. “Have you found my dad yet?”

  They sent a policeman to locate Mr Gibbs two hours ago. We waited for an hour before Cameron finally crumbled and agreed to be questioned in my presence. He refused to have a duty solicitor present; claimed all they were good for was getting him found guilty and locked up. How a thirteen-year-old knows anything about duty solicitors, I’ve no idea. I suppose he’s been around a lot of crime.

  “Nope.” Sergeant Collier has a self-satisfied smirk. I can understand why Cameron took an instant dislike to him. I’m not that keen, either.

  “I want to wait for him.”

  “You agreed to questioning,” Collier points out. “If we can’t find your dad we’ll have to keep you here overnight.”

  A flash of unease passes over Cameron’s face. Blink and you’d miss it. “Whatever.”

  “Wait a minute.” I lean forward, resting my forearms on the plastic-coated table. “Let’s not be hasty.”

  Collier looks at me. “I’m not hasty.”

  Oh, joy. Now I’ve alienated him as well. “Can I have a word with Cameron? In private.” The leaflet they gave me when I agreed to accompany Cameron told me I can request to be alone with him. Collier wasn’t there when I got it, though. For a moment he just glares at me. Steely eyes. Unbending gaze. He gives me the jitters. “Please?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Don’t do us any favours,” Cameron mutters, and I want to hit him. My knuckles tingle. He’s driving me crazy. His one-way route to self-destruction seems to have picked up a hitchhiker, and unfortunately it’s me.

  “Can you rein it in for a minute?” I hiss. Cameron looks shocked at my vehemence, but wisely says nothing. Perhaps he’s not such an idiot, after all.

  “You can have ten minutes, I’ll get a cuppa.” Collier pauses the recording and leaves the room, pulling the door shut behind him. I stare at the closed door for a minute, as though I’m waiting for him to come back. What I’m actually doing is counting to ten. Trying to calm myself down.

  It’s not working.

  Eventually, I turn to look at Cameron. “What the hell are you doing?”

  He rocks slowly on his chair—back and
forth. Each time he tips I think he’s going to fall over, but he doesn’t. It’s as if he has an innate sense of balance, tuned to a hair trigger.

  “He’s pissing me off.”

  “Don’t swear.” It’s an automatic reaction.

  Cameron giggles. Not a laugh, it’s too high pitched for that. “You’re worried about my language?”

  I push off the table and stand up. “No, Cameron, I’m not worried about your language. I’m worried about your future. You’ve been caught red-handed stealing from a shop. The police have CCTV evidence and witnesses, yet still you’re being bolshie and uncooperative.”

  “Mickey always tells me to keep my mouth shut if the pigs pull me in.”

  There are so many shades of wrong with his words I don’t know where to start. Sighing, I take the easiest route. “Who’s Mickey?”

  “My cousin.” He rocks forward, then adds, “He’s sixteen.” As if that explains everything.

  “And what makes your sixteen-year-old cousin the expert on being arrested?” Do I really want to know?

  Cameron shrugs. “Been busted a few times. Dealing, thieving. GBH.”

  Lovely.

  “Beating somebody up is a bit different to a first offense,” I point out. “If you cooperate, the likelihood is you’ll only get a reprimand.”

  And maybe I’ll get out of here before Simon throws all my stuff out on the street.

  “I don’t care.”

  I come to a stop in front of him, resting against the table. “Well, you should care. This isn’t funny, Cameron, this is your life you’re pissing up the wall—”

  “Language.”

  “Shut up and listen for a minute. This is your first time in this police station. The first time you’ve been arrested. If you don’t buck up your ideas it won’t be your last. Do you really want to end up like Mickey, or any of those other thugs constantly being hounded by the police?”

  His face falls. “I’m not sure I get the choice.” And in that voice there’s something I want to cling to: a lack of certainty, a wavering fear.

  “You do. You get the choice. And I want you to make the right one.”