by John Harvey
“What’s this all about? Is he in trouble?”
“If you could come down…”
“Nick, have you arrested him or something? What’s he done?”
“As of now, Mrs Harman, we just want to ask him some questions. If it’s not convenient for you to come yourself, we can always contact a social worker…”
“You’ll do no such bloody thing. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
If she rang for a cab it would likely be fifteen, twenty minutes before one arrived and she could walk it in less; as it was, a C2 was coming along when she reached the main road and she jumped on that.
Nick had been taken into the station and then left sitting in a corner while the two officers who’d brought him in conferred with the sergeant behind the desk. There were glances in his direction and a certain amount of nodding and head shaking and then the sergeant beckoned him over.
“Okay, son, why don’t we see what you’ve got in your pockets?”
If Nick thought of refusing, standing there with three men staring at him soon wiped any such ideas from his mind. Besides, aside from his keys and some small change, a few scraps of paper, what would they find?
“There’s nothing else?”
Nick shook his head.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
A bit more hushed discussion and he was told to go back and sit down.
“How much longer’ve I got to stay here?” Nick asked.
Nobody answered.
The two officers who had brought him in went away and after a short while he was aware of some movement in the corridor outside and faces looking at him through the square of glass at the top of the door.
Then nothing: nothing specific. The life of the station went on around him.
After what seemed an age but was probably no more than minutes, an officer he hadn’t seen before approached. “Best come wait in here.”
“I thought I could go.”
The room was small and airless, narrow, a table and several chairs. It smelt faintly of disinfectant.
“Lucky lad,” the officer said. “Your mum’s coming to get you.”
Nick closed his eyes.
***
Flustered, short of breath after running from the bus stop, Dawn excused herself past an African woman with a vibrant blue head-dress to get the duty officer’s attention.
“Yes, ma’am?” He blinked back at her through reinforced glass.
“My son was brought here. Nick. Nick Harman. I was asked to come.”
“And you are?”
“I’m his mother. Mrs Harman. Dawn.”
“Just one moment.”
The officer turned aside, dialled a number and spoke into the phone.
“If you’ll just wait here, someone will be out to see you.”
Dawn stepped aside and let the African woman past. Several others had entered and were milling around the entrance. Dawn glanced at her watch and shook her head and realised that what she wanted most was a cigarette.
The door from the interior of the station swung open and if she’d been expecting to see Nick she was mistaken.
“Mrs Harman?”
The woman holding out a hand was perhaps an inch taller than Dawn, dark hair cut short and framing a strong face that, a touch of lipstick aside, seemed free of make up. She was wearing a dark suit, brown with a thin stripe, jacket undone, trousers slightly flared. Late thirties, Dawn thought, a few years younger than herself.
“Jackie Ferris. Detective Inspector.” Her hand was smooth, its grip quick and strong. “Let’s go inside, shall we? Where we can talk.”
“I want to see my son.”
“Of course.”
Dawn followed her along a corridor and towards a flight of stairs.
Conversations, some ordered and calm, others less so, went on behind partitioned walls.
“With your permission, Mrs Harman, we’d like to ask your son some questions.”
“What about? What’s he supposed to have done?”
Ferris stopped and turned. “There was a robbery earlier this evening, around the time your son was on his way home. A group of youths attacked a man, four or five of them, and knocked him to the ground. Stole his wallet, watch, mobile phone.”
Dawn stared at her, incredulous. “And you’re saying Nick was involved?”
“Not necessarily, no.”
“Not necessarily…”
“Someone saw the tail end of what happened and called us. We had a couple of cars in the area. One of them drove round with the victim to see if he could pick out any of his attackers.”
“And he picked Nick?”
“Your boy was of a similar height and build and wearing similar clothes…”
“So’s half the estate…”
“Mrs Harman, a search was carried out at the station with your son’s consent.”
“And?”
“And we found nothing compromising, nothing…”
“Then why are you keeping him here like some criminal?”
“As I say, we’d like to ask him a few straightforward questions in your presence. If he agrees.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
The inspector waited just a fraction longer before replying. “Then, of course, he can leave.”
***
Nick had been alternately sitting and pacing around, wondering how much longer he was going to kept there, running over and over in his mind what had happened. Whenever he heard footsteps approaching, he looked expectantly towards the door but the steps always continued on past.
A burglary. A mugging.
The two youths who had pushed past him at the alley’s end, legging it for all they were worth.
He thought again about the one he might have recognised, uncertain.
The face he’d seen for a moment, little more.
This kid a year below him at school, skinny and tall.
If it was him, Nick had spotted him hanging round the estate, sometimes with Blevitt and his crew, sometimes not.
He was doing his best to fix on a name when he realised that this time the footsteps had stopped outside the door. Some woman he didn’t know came in first and then his mum.
“Nick. Nicky. Are you all right?”
Dawn had to stop herself rushing forward and hugging him, knowing it would be the last thing he wanted. He’d not forgive her for embarrassing him.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah.”
The inspector identified herself to Nick and said there were a few things she wanted to ask.
“I don’t know nothin’,” Nick said.
“Why don’t we all sit down? This needn’t take very long.”
Still Dawn hesitated, trying to read the expression on Nick’s face, wondering if it was all as harmless as the detective was saying. Maybe she should have contacted a solicitor or something instead of doing this on her own? She didn’t know what kinds of trouble Nick might talk himself into if he were given the chance.
“Mrs Harman? The sooner we’re done, the sooner you can both be on your way.”
Dawn sat down.
Ferris began by confirming Nick’s age and address and where he went to school, Nick not really looking her in the eye.
“And your father, Nick, is he living with you?”
Nick stared back at her then. “My father’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He jumped off a bridge, right? Jumped off some fucking bridge.” He felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes and shook his head, wiped a hand across his face. He’d rather die than cry in front of her.
Dawn sat frozen in her chair, not knowing what to do.
“Would you like to take a few minutes?” Ferris asked. “A drink of water?”
Nick shook his head.
Ferris took her time all the same, waiting for the tension to seep away. “Were you aware of anything going on this evening
when you were on your way home? Anything out of the ordinary?”
Nick shook his head again.
“A man was mugged. He’d been cutting through the same alley as you.”
Calm now, Nick looked back at her.
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“The youths who attacked him, they would have run off in your direction. The direction you were walking.”
“I told you, I didn’t see nothin’.”
There was a slight shift in his tone that Dawn recognised and she wondered if the inspector did too.
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“You didn’t see anyone at all?”
Rawlings, it came to him now. The youth who’d pushed past him. Rawlings. He’d heard them calling his name. Steve, he thought it might be. Steve. Steve Rawlings.
“No,” Nick said.
“And there’s nothing else you can tell me?” the inspector said.
Nick shook his head. “Can we go now?” he said, looking at his mother.
Dawn pushed back her chair. “He’s said he didn’t see anything. He can’t help you.”
Ferris nodded, took a card from her pocket and slid it across the table. “If you do think of anything, give me a call.”
Glancing at the card, Nick wanted to leave it where it was, but instead be picked it up and pushed it down into the back pocket of his jeans.
“If you were protecting a friend, I could understand it,” Ferris said. “But whoever this was, I don’t think they’re friends of yours.”
Nick didn’t reply.
six
Neither of them spoke all the way home.
As soon as they were inside the flat, Nick went to his room and closed the door.
Dawn didn’t know what to do. She wanted to talk to him, but she didn’t think Nick would want to speak to her. And if he did, she was half afraid of what he’d say.
Answering the inspector’s questions — You didn’t see anything? — she was sure Nick had lied but didn’t know why.
As for the outburst about his father, well, it shouldn’t have surprised her that after she’d given him the photos and everything, his dad should be on Nick’s mind. But for him to come out with that the way he did, then and there, it made her realise how much she underestimated what it would make him feel. How angry.
***
Nick sat on his bed. An old CD by Aphex Twin was playing on the stereo. When Scott had first started going with Laura, he’d started listening to all that spacey, ambient kind of stuff, but unlike Laura it had proved a bit of a five minute wonder and Nick had reaped the rewards. Selected Ambient Works Vol 2, Drukqs, Twenty Six Mixes for Cash. Brian Eno’s Apollo and My Life in the Bush of Ghosts. How far round the estate would the fact he’d been picked up by the police have gone? How far would it go round school?
He leaned back and closed his eyes.
When the music finished he remained where he was, unmoving, allowing the small sounds to gather round him.
The box containing his father’s things was on the floor beside the bed, the lid askew, and he reached down and picked it up, sliding the lid back into place.
He wasn’t going to let it screw him up.
If he shunted some things aside, there was just room for it in the drawer with his t-shirts and socks and stuff.
He could hear his mother now, crossing from the living room to the kitchen, the quick flow of water into the kettle.
“Hey, mum!” he called, easing open the door. “There anything to eat?”
***
Dawn had checked that Nick didn’t mind pizza twice in one day before phoning for a delivery. One American Hot with pepperoni and extra anchovies, one Hawaiian with pineapple and ham. Coleslaw and a large portion of garlic bread. Pepsi and Seven Up. They sat in the kitchen, eating from the open boxes. Just this past twenty-four hours the weather had changed and it was warm enough to have the window partly open, traffic noises drifting in from the street outside.
Dawn had just finished telling Nick about the acoustic night in Highbury, the first time she had seen his dad.
It didn’t seem possible that it was more than twenty years ago.
Not until she looked at Nick sitting there, all but fully grown, almost a man.
“You knew you were going to see him again then?”
“Not really.”
“You took his flier. Where he was going to be playing. You said so.”
“That didn’t mean…”
“It meant you fancied him.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Oh, yeah. The music, was it? The way he played his guitar.”
“Don’t be so cheeky.”
“You thought he was well fit.”
Smiling a little, Dawn bit into a piece more pizza. “Maybe I did.”
“Where d’you see him next then?” Nick asked. “Go on.”
“This place over in west London. Earls Court. The Troubadour. It was famous, apparently. That kind of music. Bob Dylan had played there. All kinds of people. Paul Simon. It was just a cellar really, underneath a coffee bar, but your dad liked it, he played there quite a bit.”
She paused for a mouthful of Seven Up.
Nick folded a triangle of pizza back on itself and bit into it, catching a spiral of stray cheese with his finger and winding it back up.
“He recognised me the moment I walked in, though, of course, he didn’t let on.”
“You went on your own?”
“No. I dragged this mate of mine along.”
“Not the one who was after him?”
Dawn laughed. “You think I’m stupid?”
No, Nick didn’t think that. “So what happened?”
“He took his time, finally came over and said, ‘How about that drink then?’, something like that. I said ‘All right,’ and he said, ‘Coffee, then,’ and I must have made a face, I didn’t like coffee much at the time. Turned out the place wasn’t licensed, it was pretty much coffee or nothing, so we went upstairs and sat at one of these small tables.” She smiled. “Must have been my first cappuccino. We chatted for a bit, don’t ask me what about. I was looking round half the time. Some right types. Arty, you know. A lot of black jumpers. People sitting around reading, playing chess.”
Nick tried to imagine it, not quite succeeding.
“When Les went back down to play,” his mum continued, “he broke a string right in the middle of the first number. I thought it would throw him off, but no, he told this story while he was fitting a new string, about the time he’d been playing with a couple of American blues musicians. One of them, Sonny Terry, he was blind, and Les, it was quite a big thing for him so he’d been drinking more than usual, more than he should, and somehow they got locked, the pair of them, inside the dressing room. Stumbling around, falling over things, trying to get out. The blind drunk, as Les said, leading the blind.
“People laughed, of course, and by then he was ready and he went right back on with the song. And I really admired that, the way he seemed so at ease, didn’t matter where he was or what size the audience, up there in front of a microphone, he was so confident, sure of himself.”
She stopped and turned her head away and Nick thought she was probably crying.
“What?” he asked. “What is it?”
Her voice was so quiet he had to strain to hear.
“The last time I went with him, somewhere just out of London, Hitchin I think it was, he couldn’t even get his guitar out of its case, never mind get up on stage.”
“Because he’d been drinking?” Nick said.
“Because he was afraid.”
“What of?”
“Everything. Not being any good, people not liking him. Everything.”
***
There were a hundred more questions Nick wanted to ask, but his mum had made it clear enough was enough. Some other time maybe, but even then he couldn’t be sure. As if there were things she didn’t want to talk a
bout, places she didn’t want to go.
They said good night and for the first time in a long while she kissed him, fleetingly, on the cheek, her face just brushing his.
“G’night, mum,” Nick said again and went into his room.
There was reading he had to do, history. More stuff about the Nazis, the rise of Hitler, the Second World War. As if nothing else had ever happened. Scott’s eldest brother had been taken prisoner in Iraq. The Gulf War. Most days he walked the streets and when you spoke to him, he looked away. Scott said some nights he wet the bed, just like a kid. How come they never learned about that?
After quarter of an hour Nick realised he’d read the same page four times without taking in a thing.
Opening the drawer, he took out the box and from the box took out the audio cassette. Slotting it down into the tape deck of the stereo he pressed play.
A hiss and then the notes of a guitar.
Nick lay back on his bed and suddenly there was his father’s voice, surprisingly light and high.
Woke up this morning, towel round my head,
Woke up this morning, towel round my head,
Looked in the mirror, wished that I were dead.
His turn to cry.
seven
Next day, Nick came straight home after school.
Christopher was meeting his cousin or something up in Finchley and Scott had gone back to Laura’s — both her parents worked and her sister was staying late for netball. Scott had been scrounging money to buy some rubbers. And Nick had work to do on his art project, which had started off brilliantly, but then got stalled.
