‘An accident.’
‘And kicks the shit out of you while you’re down.’ Mike saw a definite flash of surprise. ‘Yeah, the bastard put the boot in — that’s what probably did for your ribs.’ Another flicker of response — anger this time. But just when he thought he’d turned the man against his erstwhile pal, Khan placed both hands flat on the table and began to ease himself up from the chair.
‘If you’re not charging me, I’m off.’
‘D’you watch the news, Mr Khan?’ Mike asked, talking quickly now, not wanting to lose him, knowing instinctively that Khan would respond better to the respectful formality that he had maintained throughout the interview than to threat. ‘The little lad we found in Garston last week. The one that was on Granada News. We’ve linked him to the woman who was murdered in Mossley Hill.’
Khan grunted and put a hand to his side, obviously in considerable pain. He was standing now — his pallor giving his skin a sallow, almost jaundiced tone.
‘Jeanne-Louise Fournier,’ Mike said. ‘She was the boy’s aunty. We found her credit cards on your mate, Lobo.’
Randy collapsed back into the chair with a shout of pain. The constable who was standing at the doorway took a step forward, but Mike frowned, waving him away.
For a few minutes Khan’s raggedly painful breathing was the only sound in the room.
‘Can you help us?’ Mike asked simply.
‘If it helps you to keep him a bit longer,’ Khan said, taking small sips of air gratefully, like water from a glass, ‘I’ll give you a statement about the assault. But—’
He broke off with a grunt of pain, and Mike gave a sympathetic wince.
‘Take your time,’ he said, nudging the paper cup towards his witness.
Khan took a sip of water, his hand trembling. ‘I can’t help you with the rest, because I don’t know anything about it, and I’m not goin’ down for anything Lobo’s gone and done.’
Chapter 26
Saturday afternoon. Alain had shut himself in his room and hung the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door handle to ward off any attempt at communication. Fraser, likewise, a larger version of the truculent small boy, had retreated to their bedroom to work on what he termed ‘schemes’. Jenny had to bite her tongue to stop herself asking if it was schemes of work or some other design he had in mind.
She shuttled between the dining room and the kitchen, unhappily opening and closing cupboards, sorting washing, tidying, returning to the dining room to review her work and type a few words before restlessness got the better of her and she found herself watering plants or sorting through the magazine rack to decide which papers were ready for recycling.
She could hear Fraser moving about upstairs, as restless as she was. They were supposed to be taking Alain to the hospital to meet his mother that afternoon. The interview had been set up for two o’clock and not only was Alain shutting her out — literally as well as metaphorically — but he was still refusing to see his mother. What was she meant to do? She couldn’t drag the boy to the hospital screaming and kicking, and Max was against bringing Madame Fournier to their house, in case there was some reason why Alain should be afraid of her: their house, a haven to Alain since the terrible events of the previous weekend, would no longer feel safe to him.
She stood to straighten a ruck in the curtains, lingering to look out over the garden. The sky was a rich dark blue, but a swelling of cloud piled white on cream, towered over the line of the western rooftops. Later, they would have rain. A jet rumbled overhead, the sound of its engine like a roller skate on a wooden floor. Solid, purposeful.
* * *
Fraser screwed up another sheet of paper and threw it at the wall. How could he concentrate on school work? How could he even be trying to think about it? He reached into his trouser pocket and took out the piece of fax paper. Smoothing out the creases, he wondered why had he gone to so much trouble getting the damned address if he wasn’t going to use it? He stared at the name at the top of the sheet. He had to find out. He had to know.
* * *
Jenny sat again and tried to concentrate on her work. When a parent is accused of abuse, she wrote, dignity, honesty, respect are gone in a moment: the esteem which has taken a whole lifetime to build is lost. Irretrievably gone. What makes it worse for the those accused is that vehement denial is viewed by therapists as an admission of guilt, and confusingly for the supposed victim, the existence of profound disbelief, whether on the part of the accused or her family, is seen as confirmation, as tangible evidence that their memories are ‘real’.
Jenny could not, in her present state of distraction, imagine how it must feel to experience the level of betrayal, the intensity of paranoia, the emotion — hatred — that recovered memory patients must feel, and the horror of parents wrongly accused.
What she felt now herself, suspecting a betrayal of sorts, was disappointment. And a tingling apprehension, a calm which she knew to be dangerous, for although rare, it always preceded one of two things: extreme emotion or drastic action. Jenny feared there would be no going back on the resulting release of pent-up — what? Anger? Sadness? She turned and stared at the grey luminosity of the laptop monitor and saw the text swirl and swim out of focus.
She wiped her eyes and forced herself to be rational. She probed her feelings, exploring the tender spots, and found only that lingering sense of disappointment, of wasted time. Should she speak to Fraser again — demand an explanation?
Standing in the hallway, she heard Fraser moving about their bedroom. The restless pacing had stopped, and his movements had taken on a more purposeful quality. She pictured him picking up his wallet from the bedside cabinet, patting pockets, combing his fingers through his hair, right hand then left. Then he thumped downstairs: one, two, three, four, five — two at a time, leaping the last three, and rattling the crockery in the kitchen.
He already had his house keys in his hand. He stuffed them into his jacket pocket and, after a barely detectable hesitation, and avoiding her gaze, reached for the car keys on the hall dresser.
‘What are you doing?’
Fraser wouldn’t look at her, but stood, his head lowered, and his hand closed over the car keys, protecting them, possessing them, establishing ownership, and yet there remained a defensiveness in his stance, in his inability to meet her eye.
‘Fraser, you’re not thinking of taking the car again?’
He twitched, a slight movement of the shoulder, perhaps a shrug. ‘I’ve somewhere to get fast,’ he said, almost apologetically.
‘Ring for a taxi.’
‘Too far.’
‘Fraser you can’t drive.’
‘I can drive. I’m just not licensed to.’
‘A fine distinction. And while we’re on the subject, have you forgotten that you’re not insured, either?’
He shifted his weight, left foot, right, but his grip on the keys never slackened.
‘What’s this about, Fraser — Mr Hunter?’
He looked straight at her then, and she knew that she was right. ‘What’s her name?’ Jenny asked.
‘Whose?’
‘Don’t insult me.’
He frowned, looking away again, looking down. ‘This isn’t about her, Jen.’
‘Am I allowed to know her name?’
‘It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t matter.’
‘Of course she bloody matters!’ Fraser glanced at his watch and she thought, Is he so obsessed with her that he can’t even talk to me, tell me what’s going on? ‘She’s poisoned our marriage,’ Jenny went on. ‘She matters, Fraser.’
Fraser flinched slightly. ‘I know I’ve no right to ask you to trust me,’ he said, ‘but I mean it. This has nothing to do with her.’
‘Why didn’t you just let me bleed to death ten years ago?’
‘Jenny!’ He looked stricken.
‘It would have been better than this slow leaching.’
He reached for her, but she flinched away.
> ‘Jenny, I have to go.’ He glanced at his watch again and Jenny saw a flame of anxiety flare briefly in his eyes.
‘It’s long been over between us,’ he said.
He must have seen the shock and pain in her face, because he stumbled on, ‘No — not . . . I meant between me and her. Not—’ Blood crept into his face. ‘How could you think—?’
One look was enough to silence him.
He bowed his head.
‘Who is this “Mr Hunter”?’ Jenny demanded. ‘Is he her husband? What’s he threatening you with? Is she pregnant — is that it?’
Fraser flushed more deeply. ‘Jenny, no.’
‘Well then, you need to explain to me.’
He sighed, wiped a hand over his face. ‘I’m not having an affair. At least, not now.’
She’d known it in her heart but hearing him admit it drained any remaining hope from her. She turned and began the long slow climb up the stairs.
Fraser followed her part way. ‘It was years ago, Jen! I haven’t seen her in over eight years. It meant nothing.’
She turned back to him. ‘Don’t tell me it was nothing, Fraser. You had an affair. You had a baby. What was that?’ she asked. ‘An assertion of your masculinity? If it was nothing, why did it happen?’
Fraser’s head dropped. ‘I don’t know. But it proved one thing to me — that I love you, and that’s all that matters.’
‘It matters that you had an affair,’ Jenny said, clasping her hands in front of her to keep them from shaking. ‘Where? Here? While I was on night shift?’
‘For God’s sake, Jen!’
‘I’m sorry if I offend your delicate sense of decency,’ she said, then checked, suddenly realizing. ‘Eight years — about the same time we decided that we’d start fostering?’
‘You decided,’ Fraser muttered.
‘What?’
‘It’s what you wanted.’
‘We discussed it,’ Jenny said, feeling the ground beneath her shift and liquesce. The certainties that had kept her from giving up and giving in were slipping away from her. So strong was the impression that she grabbed the stair rail, afraid to look down.
‘There was no alternative. You gave me no alternative. You were so . . .’
‘So what?’ Fraser shrugged. ‘Say it — I was so screwed up. Are you trying to tell me you felt sorry for me, so you’ve put up with something you never wanted for eight years?’
‘You were always so sure this is what you wanted.’
‘And what did you want?’ Jenny asked. ‘It was always so difficult to get you to talk. Emotions are taboo, aren’t they? Dirty language.’
‘Don’t start that.’
‘I didn’t start anything,’ Jenny retorted. ‘You did. The phone calls were all for you, weren’t they? Am I expected to believe that the poor bastard who made them is freaking out over an eight-year-old affair?’
Fraser gave her a look which said, You don’t seem to be handling it all that well.
‘Don’t,’ Jenny warned. ‘Don’t try that with me. This isn’t about some ancient affair. It’s about lies and broken trust. And it’s fresh, Fraser. What’s happening is happening now. I need you here and you’re going to see her instead, and you want me to accept that you’re finished with her — that it’s long been over.’ She quoted his words back at him, spitefully.
‘Won’t you believe I’m not having an affair?’
‘No, I won’t. I can’t.’
Fraser shook his head. ‘I have to go.’
‘All right.’ Jenny stared down at him.
‘Jen.’ Fraser stepped forward.
‘Leave now,’ she said, ‘and you needn’t bother coming back.’ She heard the absolute conviction, the unbending decision in her words, and knew that he would, too.
Fraser repeated her name. He reached for her hand, and she tried to snatch it away, but he held her. They struggled briefly, then a loud crack! and Fraser let go and crumpled onto the stairs, slipping the few steps to the bottom.
‘You leave her alone!’ Alain yelled, his voice breaking, rising to a scream.
Fraser put one hand to his head and groaned, while Jenny turned to the boy. He was holding a cricket bat in both hands and his eyes glittered with fear and fury. ‘Leave her alone!’ he repeated. He began shaking uncontrollably and Jenny put her arms around him. He started to cry, but he never took his eyes from Fraser.
‘Get out! Get out!’ he screamed.
Fraser hauled himself up, still holding his head, then, bending to pick up the keys he had dropped, he stumbled and almost fell again. He walked unsteadily to the front door, one hand on the wall all the way.
‘I mean it, Fraser,’ Jenny said, folding her arms in front of her to hold the child safe — and to hold in the pain that threatened to claw its way out. ‘If you go to her . . .’ But he had already gone.
* * *
Fraser made it as far as the garage before he was sick. He leaned against the door, trembling, then, taking a few deep breaths, he opened up and sat in the car until the dizziness receded.
He backed out carefully, performing the cockpit routine he had practised in his driving lessons, adrenaline high, senses sharply alert. He waited a couple of minutes for a completely empty road, before manoeuvring the car onto the road.
He gripped the steering wheel, checked his mirror, turned on his indicator, looked over his shoulder, grateful that at least it wasn’t raining. He edged out from the kerb, feeding the wheel left to right, then straightening up, right to left, letting the clutch out gently, changing up gears as smoothly as his shaking hands and throbbing head would allow. Christ, if he was stopped by the police, they’d throw the book at him.
He couldn’t have told Jenny — not yet. ‘Aw, fuck,’ he said aloud. He had been thinking that he’d wanted to spare her the pain. But she had assumed the worst — that he was still having an affair — or at least that his lover had whistled, and he’d come running, which amounted to the same thing. How would Jenny have taken it if he’d told her the truth about where he was going? He was sure that would have hurt her more.
He drove down to Smithdown Road and turned right, heading towards Penny Lane. As he approached the complicated system of traffic lights and roundabouts at the start of Menlove Avenue his heart began to hammer. How the hell did folk know which lane to go for? His hands were sweating, and he had to will himself to release first one, then the other, to wipe them on his jeans.
A sudden surge of regret swept over him and he groaned. How could he have said those things to Jenny? They had discussed fostering over and over in the six months before they had made their final decision. Roz, their social worker, had probed again and again during their assessment their reasons for opting to foster, rather than adopt. Jenny’s arguments had been lucid and persuasive: if they adopted, it would be like trying to replace the child they had lost. It would be unfair, imposing all their high expectations onto another child. How could they avoid making sly comparisons: would my child have done this, achieved that . . . ? He had been unsure, insecure, but he had been carried along on the wave of Jenny’s regained energy and optimism.
He had privately considered the possibility of surrogacy, but couldn’t broach the subject with Jenny, not because, as she had assumed, he thought she was screwed up, but because he had at last seen a return to the confident, extrovert Jenny of old. After two years of depression following the miscarriage, she had, it seemed, begun to regain emotional equilibrium.
He had known, even with the first cryptic telephone call, what Mr Hunter had meant. Not the detail — that was sketchy. Not until the message while Jenny had been away. Had Hunter known that she was away from home? Was he watching the house? But even before the telephone call arranging to meet at the roadside café, Fraser had understood in essence who Hunter was and why he had asked the same question of both of them:
Have you had any children adopted?
The lights had changed and the car behind sounded its horn. Flus
tered, Fraser crunched the car into gear. It bounced a yard or two before stalling. The driver swerved around him and Fraser caught a glimpse of his face, red with anger, mouthing obscenities. Fraser pulled the handbrake on and went through the procedure, smiling sheepishly and lifting his shoulders in apology at a police car which slid past, the occupants eyeing him curiously.
‘Sodding hell,’ he muttered. Then, taking a breath, he eased the car into gear and shot through the lights as they changed to amber. He trailed behind the police car until it turned off at Speke and then he accelerated out into the middle lane.
* * *
Jenny carried Alain through to the lounge and placed him on the sofa, sitting next to him and hugging him close with one arm, while prising the cricket bat from him hands with the other. He seemed to be in shock. She would have to postpone the meeting with his mother and grandparents. It was too soon to try and get him to talk, although she sensed that he would, of his own volition, if she left him for a little while. She held him to her, his head resting just below her chin, and thought through the last ten minutes. It was as if her entire world, the foundations on which her happiness was built and her security depended were fake, an optical illusion — one movement from the narrow viewpoint and it all came apart, exposed as a trick. Had she been so self-absorbed that she could not see that what she had so passionately needed was not what Fraser had wanted at all?
‘Are you all right, Jenny?’ His voice, small, anxious, startled her from her reverie. ‘I mean, did he hurt you?’
‘Fraser would never hurt me,’ Jenny said, and felt a simultaneous shooting flame of fear and loss. ‘Not deliberately,’ she added lamely.
The boy focused on her face. His eyes, so dark, so like Fraser’s, stared into hers. ‘Is it—?’ He faltered and looked away. He sniffed, and Jenny could see by the redness around his eyes that he was fighting back more tears. He glared angrily at the blank screen of the television set.
‘Is it . . . ?’ Jenny prompted gently, even now more attuned to others’ needs than to her own, to their suffering, despite the rising tide of emotion that threatened to swamp her.
THE LOST BOY an unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists Page 20