by TL Dyer
My eyes are everywhere, though mostly on Jake. Even when my eyes drift to what’s happening elsewhere, I make it a point to know where he is at all times. Diversion, I’ve learned over the last twelve months, is more successful than trying to calm him once his terror takes hold. A scraped knee. A bumped head. That’s all it would take. With each stumble, my heart’s in my mouth and my body ready to move, but the lawn’s a saviour. Just grass stains. No blood. Not yet.
A girl in a pink velvet dress, tied around its centre with a slash of red ribbon, skips down the stone steps from the garden to the patio, her eyes on the balloon she holds in her hand rather than her feet on the ground. My shoulders tense. I’m about to tell her to watch how she goes, when I get a tap on the arm and a voice says, ‘Well, well, PC Sanderson. Fancy seeing you here.’
The girl and her balloon make it safely into the house without incident and my gaze lands on Sandra, a woman I went to school with and now the mother of one of Jake’s classmates. She joins me beside the wall, folding her arms over her navy satin blouse and pinning the ends of the neck bow beneath her forearms so it unravels. Her name tag’s still pinned above her right breast. Sandra Bartlett is etched into the plastic beneath the pale turquoise lettering of Barclays Bank. I think of my own name tag – 353 – and wonder which is best.
‘We don’t usually see you at these things?’ Sandra says, with a sharp nudge of her elbow.
‘Jake’s not a big fan of parties,’ I say, which even to my own ears sounds ridiculous; what kid doesn’t love a party, with sugary food and a chance to run riot? ‘It was the Easter egg hunt that did it. He couldn’t resist,’ I add, and check my watch. ‘We won’t be stopping long.’
Sandra huffs a laugh. ‘Wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ she says, tilting her chin to where a game of football has started up and Jake crouches in goal with his hands aloft, face screwed up in concentration. In front of him, Sandra’s boy, Ieuan, is bouncing on his feet, waiting for the ball to come his way. Same age as Jake, but a good few inches taller and broader.
‘Who’s that?’ I ask, meaning the lean, young fella with the whistle orchestrating the match.
She leans against me, jabs at the bridge of her glasses with one finger, and out of the corner of her mouth, says, ‘Not bad, is he?’
I turn to explain that’s not what I meant, when she adds, ‘That, my lovely lady, is the toy boy.’ I raise an eyebrow. She hurries to clarify. ‘God, not mine. I wish! No. Carly-Ann’s.’
‘Who’s Carly-Ann?’
She tuts and rolls her eyes. ‘Declan’s mother? The party boy? This is her house?’
‘Oh right, yeah. Course.’
Sandra nods like now we understand each other. ‘Barely out of nappies. Well, twenty-one, to be more accurate. Where she got him, I don’t know, but I’m not kidding, he’s an absolute diamond. He’s marvellous with Declan. A far cry from his real old man. Though the bar was set pretty low on that one.’
I watch as the toy boy blows his whistle and calls the teams to order. To be fair to the youngster, he does seem to hold sway with them. There aren’t many lads of his age who are comfortable around kids. Beside me, Sandra huffs out a large sigh as if she’s thinking the same thing.
‘How’s Barty?’ I ask. Peter Bartlett. Another one of our old classmates, and Sandra’s other half since longer than I can remember.
‘Oh, you know Pete,’ she says, dragging her eyes from the toy boy to me and quickly back again. For a while it seems this is the extent of her answer, but another peep of the whistle prompts her to respond in more detail. ‘Can’t sit still for long, Pete, always bloody ants in his pants. He’s got Ieuan doing this basketball on the weekends now. At Newbridge Leisure Centre?’ She glances at me to see if I know what she’s talking about. I don’t. ‘Dads and Lads, they call it. Not sure if it’s dads against lads or dads with their lads, but you get the picture. Ieuan loves it.’
‘Sounds like fun,’ I say, just as a roar goes up from one team and a simultaneous groan from the other. I missed what happened, but Jake is leaping up and down in celebration rather than dropping to the ground to cry into the grass like the other goalie. Toy Boy’s loud, slow whistle puts the lid on the cheering to reset the match. He holds his arms in the air, signalling the re-start, the t-shirt he wears over his Levis riding up to unveil a not unhealthy-looking toned midriff and an aesthetically pleasing line of soft hair from his belly button to somewhere beneath the snug blue jeans.
‘Yeah,’ my companion says on a long out-breath.
‘Yeah,’ I agree, though to what I couldn’t say.
His arms come down, the whistle stops, and it’s back to chasing the kids around the mock pitch.
‘It’s what they need, isn’t it?’ Sandra says musingly. ‘We think we’re the bee’s knees, don’t we, us mothers? But look at them. Like pigs in shit. Especially the boys. They need something other than us, don’t they?’
I turn to see what she means, but as I do, her head suddenly flips my way. ‘God, sorry, Sach, I didn’t mean… Though I mean Jake’s got his granddad, of course. And Shaun. So he’s doing perfectly fine for himself. Better than most, the lucky fella.’
She softly laughs, and I return a smile that will inevitably look forced. Because it is.
‘And of course they’re still little yet,’ she goes on, digging the hole. ‘By the time he’s a teenager, you’ll have met someone.’ She winks and prods me with her elbow again. A no-hard-feelings poke.
I say nothing. I don’t need to. Toy Boy blows hard on his whistle, attracting everyone’s attention, not just the kids. And after a loving glance and a smile to Declan’s mother on the sidelines, he announces it’s time for the egg hunt. Thank bloody Christ.
*
It’s less than a ten-minute drive from Declan’s house to ours, but that’s enough for Jake to go from awake to comatose. He’s exhausted. He’s also not the only one. We stayed longer than I’d meant to, but he was having such a great time, and Sandra was right. Maybe not about everything, but she was right about Toy Boy being a diamond. He led them through the egg hunt in a way that ensured every kid got at least one, then shepherded them through a selection of party games without incident or tears, and ended by having them all sit on the lawn to settle themselves down while Declan opened his presents and cards.
Shaun had done well to buy the footie sticker album and bundle of stickers that had the birthday boy cheering loudly and throwing his arms around Jake, who glowed with pride. The card, too, brought some giggles and even one or two head-back guffaws, though Toy Boy raised his eyebrows at the cartoon-sketch of a grey-haired man in nothing but an overcoat, flashing a bunch of shocked female pensioners waiting at a bus stop. Up above, it read: It’s your birthday. Let it all hang out! I’d dithered over it, in truth, but both Jake and his Uncle Shaun insisted the kids would love it. They were right. Though when the party drew to a close, I was the first to bundle my son towards the nearest exit.
Now the boy’s so worn out that when we pull up outside the house he doesn’t budge. From the boot, I take his Maltesers egg and the boxed Hot Wheels cars he won in Pass the Parcel, and after dropping them in the hallway, I return to lift him from his seat in the car. His bottom lip’s curled under the top one, and he sucks on it as his head leans into my chest, his soft hair brushing my neck. I nudge the car door closed with my hip, take him inside and up the stairs.
He may be petite for his age, but I’m still blowing like a steam train by the time I lower him to the mattress. It’s barely even eight o’clock and he’s flat out. He lets me change him into his pyjamas, though with a grumble of annoyance. The skin on his body is warm, so I press the back of my hand to his forehead, his chest, his neck. He pushes me away and reaches with his eyes closed for Suzu hanging from the edge of the bed.
I pull the duvet up over only half of his body so he doesn’t get any warmer than all the excitement and running around has already made him, and go to the door. Just for a minute I watch him sleep. I
can’t get the image of Toy Boy running up and down the lawn after the kids out of my mind, nor the things Sandra said. Dads and Lads. I’d always thought I’d advocate for Jake being whoever he wanted to be and doing whatever he chooses, but that’s one club he’ll never be able to join.
In my room I exchange the blouse and trousers for pyjamas, then go downstairs and stare blindly into the fridge for half a minute before blowing out a sigh and settling for the chicken tikka masala ready meal meant for those shifts when eating is a requirement but too much of a chore. What the hell; a few hours at a kid’s party and it feels like I’ve done a fourteen-hour shift. I puncture the plastic wrapping with a fork and throw it in the microwave, cracking open a bottle of Foster’s while I watch the meal rotate behind the glass with the same blank expression Sandra gawped at Toy Boy earlier. When it’s done, I plate up, tray up, and take it into the living room where I switch on the TV for distraction.
Skipping the soap operas – I get enough drama in the day job – I settle for MasterChef on BBC2 and scoff at some of the cooking disasters while I finish the ready meal. One contestant looks like Carly-Ann, Declan’s mother – little blonde-haired, smiley-faced and perky-bottomed Carly-Ann – which brings me back to Toy Boy again. Maybe at the door when Carly-Ann thanked me for coming, I should have asked her where she got him from and how I might get one. But since when have I been looking for someone? It’s not as if I have the time. Nor the energy, I think, putting the empty plate on the coffee table and knocking back the rest of the Foster’s. It’s been me and Jake for so long I can’t even contemplate anyone else; I’m not sure there’d be any room. Besides, experience has taught me the word ‘copper’ is like Kryptonite to most men – it immediately drains them of strength. Though maybe it’s more my attitude that warns them off rather than the job title. Or the way I look at them, like I’m studying their motives. But that’s what the job does to you. I get up to fetch another Foster’s from the kitchen.
Sandra implied that even if boys get by without their fathers when they’re little, they need them when they get to the teen years. There’s some argument for that. Decent fathers, at least. I bear witness to the fallout from broken or damaged families most days of the week. Rarely does a lad from a good, secure home with loving parents go off the rails quite as spectacularly as one without all that. Does that mean Jake’s already at a disadvantage? He might be young now, but the years go by fast, and I’ve seen kids younger than thirteen already heading in the other direction, latching on to the wrong groups. In another four, five, six years, he’ll be looking more to his mates for guidance on how to behave, rather than me. Maybe his grandad would have been enough to keep him on track, with his calm voice and gentle influence, but now even he won’t be here. That leaves only Shaun as the male role model in his life and, though Jake could do much worse, I don’t think that’s a responsibility my brother anticipates, or even wants.
Dropping on the sofa, I rest the bottle of lager on my knee, its condensation seeping through the thin material of my pyjamas to make my skin cold. The laptop sits open on the coffee table where I brought it on the way back from the kitchen.
‘Bloody hell,’ I mutter, staring at the blank screen.
Sipping at the lager, my one foot judders against the floor with the dual purpose of psyching me up and also expending the energy from my agitation.
I finish the Foster’s, still deliberating.
My finger shoots out to power up the laptop. What harm could it do, really, I ask myself. While I consider the answer to that, I get another bottle from the fridge, the last one.
This is a stupid idea, I conclude. But by the time the last bottle’s empty, I’ve set up a profile on a dating site, powered down the laptop, slammed the lid shut, and turned off all the lights to go to bed.
*
My eyes fly open. The room’s dark except for the white strip from next door’s security light breaching the gap between the curtain and the wall. I stay still. Listen. Something woke me but I don’t know what. I hit the snooze button on the clock so it lights up. 12.40am, just an hour after I came to bed. I check my phone, squinting against the locked screen. Emails but no messages. I’m setting the phone back down on the bedside table when the thing that woke me makes another sound. I throw the duvet aside, leap from the bed and run to the door.
‘Jake?’ I call, as I hurry across the landing. ‘It’s alright, darling, I’m coming.’
I push open the door to his room. He’s sitting up in bed and caught somewhere between crying, coughing, and choking. Or at least, he wants to cry but coughs instead.
‘Alright. It’s alright,’ I say, getting to his bedside. And that’s when I’m hit with the full force of it. The smell. My hand is wet where I’ve touched the duvet. With my other hand, I turn on his bedside lamp. He whines as the intrusion of light hurts his eyes. Then a second whine. Before he shoots forth a projectile stream of pink-blancmange-coloured vomit.
Chapter 4
‘Well then, young man, I’ve got good news and bad news.’
Dr William Wilson stands in the centre of the living room, peeling off his face mask and gloves and balling them up to drop into his case on the coffee table. Jake eyes him with watchful wariness from his makeshift bed on the sofa. As do I, sitting on the sofa, arm behind him. Not that I don’t trust him – Bill’s been our family GP since before I was even born – but anyone who says the words ‘bad news’ in reference to my son is to be met with a bite of the tongue and a cool head.
‘The good news is, you’re perfectly fine. Well, apart from the throwing up and what not,’ he announces, with a flourish of his hand, which he then brushes over his wild, white mop of hair. ‘I’m ninety-nine point nine percent sure it’s gastroenteritis. Which to you and me is stomach flu. It’s not deadly,’ he says, unrolling his sleeves, ‘but it feels like rubbish. Am I right?’
Jake’s pale, dry lips pin together and he nods once. I sweep the hair from his forehead, pleased at least that the temperature he had over the weekend has come down at last.
‘Treatment is simple,’ Wilson goes on, perching on the end of the armchair and looking straight at the patient. ‘Plenty to drink. Water, squash, juice. And when you feel like eating, eat.’
‘Even if I’m sick?’ Jake asks, his voice wobbling.
Wilson gives one emphatic nod. ‘Even if you’re sick. Trust me. If you can, then go ahead and eat. Some of the good stuff will still make its way through, and help to make you feel better faster. Alright?’
The patient nods, almost smiles, and the doctor gets to his feet. He’s only a short man, but since I’ve spent the last three days with Jake alone and no other adult, his presence right now is filling the room. As is his reassurance. Jake isn’t the only one feeling better for his calming words.
‘Oh,’ he says, as he’s heading for the door. ‘I forgot about the bad news…’ He points to the TV, the third LazyTown episode this morning. ‘I’ve seen this one. It has a very disappointing ending.’
For the first time in days, Jake chuckles.
‘I’m not kidding,’ Wilson adds. ‘Take care, young Jake. You’ll be back in school driving your teachers crazy before you know it. Mum?’ He nods towards the hallway and I follow him out, easing the door closed behind me. ‘Just so we’ve dotted all i’s and crossed the t’s – any history of digestive disorders? Crohn’s or the like?’
‘No, nothing,’ I say, and Wilson nods thoughtfully, the crook of his finger at his mouth worrying me.
‘Well, look, undoubtedly it’s just a virus. You’ll probably find half his classmates will have come down with it too. This thing can spread like wildfire. Lots of rest, fluids, and food when he can. Temperature’s down, so that’s proof he’s on the mend. However, if he’s still unable to keep anything down in another five days, call me and we’ll run some standard tests. Blood, urine, that kind of thing. But, Sacha, I’d be willing to bet my best receptionist that he’ll be back to normal and you’ll be tearing you
r hair out well before then.’
‘Hope so,’ I say, then smile and thank him for his help as he leaves. But once the door shuts, I lean back against it and close my eyes. Jake’s nights have been restless since he woke throwing up on Friday, which means fitting in any kind of long chunk of sleep has been impossible. Still recovering from a night shift, my body is more confused than normal. Which is why perhaps the thought of Jake having tests fills me with terror. Urine test, fine. But blood? He won’t let them near him to take blood, they’d have to knock him out first. My heart thunders in my chest, interrupted only by his calling me from the living room.
‘Coming,’ I say, pushing myself away from the door and hoping this time he’s got most of it in the bowl rather than on himself. I’ve already got one wash going and another out on the line. But when I step in the room, he’s pushed himself upright, and I might be wrong but it already looks as if some of the colour is returning to his cheeks.
‘Can I have some toast?’ he asks.
Flooded with relief, I tell him of course he can, and in the kitchen hope we won’t get as far as needing tests after all. Later, though, as I lie with him cuddled up beside me on the sofa, the toast still in his stomach for now while he sleeps, flicking through channels for anything with adults instead of cartoon characters, that temporary relief slides away as fast as it came. Because it’s not just the hemophobia – the fear of blood bad enough to plunge him into a state of acute anxiety and hyperventilation, which at some point he’ll have to deal with even if we dodge the bullet this time. It’s also the other thing Wilson said. About history of disorders. It wasn’t my side of the family he meant. He knows all about us.
With my hand still on the remote control, I pause over one of those generic daytime TV chat shows, hosted by a middle-aged white man with greying hair sporting a smile caught somewhere between sympathy and glee. Three guests are seated on the stage in front of a baying audience, a woman holding hands with her partner on one side, and a lone male in trackie bottoms and a lot to say for himself on the other. The banner running along the bottom in sensational capital letters reads: WHO’S THE DADDY? DNA DOESN’T LIE.