by Ros Carne
‘Lola’s Facebook friend.’
‘I don’t use Natasha on Facebook. I don’t want people getting too interested and trying to track me down. Listen, Luke, I work flat-out. I missed out on the tenancy. You were out with your mates. I was just messing around.’ She paused. He was staring at her, studying her. She tried to read his thoughts and found she couldn’t. ‘You have to trust me, Luke.’
‘Do you meet these people?’
‘Of course not. Anyway, it’s not like there are lots of them.’
He was scrutinising her face as if he didn’t know who or what she was, as if he were working out a puzzle, unsure of the solution. He was a tall man, just over six foot, strongly built. She took a step back.
He said, ‘He looks more like fifteen to me.’
‘It’s possible. It’s Facebook.’
‘So does Lola prefer children?’
The words cut through her like the slash of a blade. For a moment she stood motionless, clutching her pain. Then she launched herself towards him. She wanted to hurt him physically. ‘How dare you!’ she screamed, as he gripped her arms and held her firm.
‘What am I supposed to think? Can’t you see what this is doing to me?’
And though she struggled against his grip she could see it. And she hated what she saw. What she wanted was the old Luke, the easy understanding Luke who loved and trusted her, whose lightest touch could fill every cell of her body with delight. Not this angry combatant. He would never hit her, but if she did not take care, he might come to hate her. He had posed a question she would never stoop to answer, but as she felt the strength of his hands on her arms she knew she needed to break this impasse. His eyes bored into hers. There was still one thing she had not tried, had never tried.
‘Please, Luke, I know I’m a mess. Forgive me. I won’t do it again. This boy means nothing to me. No one else does. Only you.’ She paused. He was looking at her intently. She thought it would be enough, that he would let her go. But he continued to grip her arms and she could not move.
‘How can I believe you?’ he said.
‘Because it’s true. Because I love you.’ The words hovered in the air, brittle and false.
He said nothing. Just stood there and she sensed the battle inside him. After a long second, he let go of her arms and turned away, alone and silent, shaking. Natasha waited as, still shaking, he tore one of the framed prints from the wall and hurled it onto the floor. The glass smashed around their feet and she jumped back, watching him fall on his knees amidst the fragments.
They slept inches apart. No sex, not even a cuddle. But in the morning he reached for her as he always did, and she responded. To boost his mood, she agreed to walk across the park to his favourite coffee shop. Together, they toured Sainsbury’s. Luke loved shopping for food. In the evening she helped him cook, following his detailed instructions to produce an elaborate three course meal which she did her best to eat. After supper they went to the pub to meet some of his social worker mates. No more was said of Lola or her young Facebook friend.
The nausea came and went. On Monday she would book an appointment with the doctor. Later that evening she opened Facebook and checked Messenger. Jacob had sent another photo. She opened it on full screen and as she did so something jumped inside her. He was stretched out on the same old sofa, his eyelids slightly lowered, a half smile curling on his lips. His skin was very pale, almost as white as the bandage on his right arm. And this time she could see all of him. Natasha shivered with pleasure as she took in his young naked body.
She read his message. ‘Now take your top off.’ And closed the page.
Chapter Twenty-one
Mel
‘You need to tell me, Jacob.’
‘You don’t know what I need.’
She was standing in the doorway looking down at him sitting on his unmade bed. It was Saturday evening, two days since he had returned to the house with a wound and still he had not told her how it happened. Though he had let her examine the cut which had started to heal into a wide scab that looked like a narrow eye. It would scar. He should have had stitches.
‘I’m going out,’ he said.
‘You can’t go out now. You only got back a couple of hours ago. What’s going on, Jacob?’
‘Why?’
‘It’s almost eleven.’
‘So?’
He was standing now, putting on a cotton jacket, running his fingers through his strange new haircut.
‘Where are you going?’
‘A party.’
‘Whose party?’
‘No one you know. Stop interrogating me.’
‘Don’t talk to me like that, Jacob.’
He swung past her and out of the door. The rest of the evening was a blur of too much red wine, unanswered phone calls to Claude and a smattering of old friends. She was a fool. A total fool.
Dawn streaked around the sitting-room curtains; shapes shifted before her eyes. Irritated with herself for drinking too much and crashing out in her clothes, she pulled herself up and tottered across the floor. Out in the corridor the lights were ablaze. The door of Jacob’s room was ajar, his clothes strewn over the floor. Most of him was under the covers, only the mop of hair and half a leg sticking out over the duvet. She could hear him breathing. Thank God. He would have seen her on the sofa with the wine glass and empty bottle on the floor. She wondered what he thought about his mother’s undistinguished behaviour. She returned to her own bed and slept.
Around eight a.m. she woke again and lay on her back in a fog of unfocused apprehension. Faces loomed, Jacob, Paul, Natasha. She felt for her phone. Headlines flashed across her screen saver. The news, as usual, was terrifying. She swiped to weather. Sun and showers. The light refracting through the blinds shivered like shot silk on the bedroom wall.
She was due for lunch with her mother and then to meet Natasha at four thirty. To her surprise, as she dried herself off after her shower, she found she was looking forward to both encounters. When the moment was right, she would confront Natasha, who would confess, crumple. Or would she? Nothing about the woman would surprise her.
As for Isabel, she had never been motherly in the conventional sense of protective or nurturing. On big issues such as Mel’s choice of career, university or boyfriends, she had remained silent. Her targets were the little things. Advice was forthcoming on hairstyles, choice of dress, accessories and even, repeated several times, how to get in and out of the passenger seat of a sports car. As soon as Mel and Claude had bought the flat, there were curtain fabrics and furnishings to consider. On child rearing she had nothing to say, though she was always delighted to see Jacob.
Isabel had always been the most interesting person in her own world. Conversations were mostly one-sided, reminiscences of past theatrical glory, the days in provincial theatre before she landed the TV part that had supported her towards an unwilling retirement at sixty-seven. Mel let it wash over her. But recently she was finding a new pleasure in their Sunday afternoons in the quiet cul de sac. Earl Grey tea and a gentle monologue in her mother’s beautifully modulated contralto, interspersed with desultory deliberations over lethal games of Scrabble or Rummicub.
She would have liked to take Jacob, but it would be a mistake to wake him now. Nor would she want him hanging around during tea with Natasha. She would let him sleep. At least he was safe at home.
She studied her reflection in the mirror by the front door. Not bad. The lines around her mouth were faint. Despite drinking most of the bottle of Merlot, the circles under her eyes were no worse than usual. She dabbed on a little more foundation and stuck a few extra clips in her hair. There never seemed to be time for a haircut. A touch of mascara and lipstick. Was it for Natasha’s benefit? Or was the old fear of displeasing her mother still hard to shake off?
The doorbell rang. Mel felt a twinge of irritation. She opened the door and found herself face to face with two strangers.
‘Is Jacob Villiers here?’
> ‘He is. I’m his mother. Who wants him?’
The woman and the man both produced police identity cards. For a few moments Mel was on TV, standing in the middle of a police procedural, about to burst into tears. But this wasn’t about the death of a loved one. Her loved one was lying in his bed in his room. This must be about something he had done, something wrong. All this spun through her mind as the floor dropped away and the walls began to sway. She put a hand to the doorjamb to steady herself and remained staring at them for what seemed like minutes but must have been seconds. The male officer spoke next. He sounded kind, concerned.
‘We need to ask him a few questions. May we come in?’
‘Of course,’ she said, standing back, letting them through the narrow hall, pointing to the sitting room. Her throat seemed to be closing but she managed to blurt out.
‘If you go in there, I’ll get him up. He was a bit late last night.’ And then she stopped and asked, ‘What’s it about?’
She heard the words and knew they were her own. But they didn’t feel like her words. It was as if she were split in two and the real Mel had left her body and was looking down at the ghost of herself.
‘A youth has been hurt.’ The female officer was more assertive.
‘What youth? How hurt?’
‘We’d rather speak to your son, Mrs… er… Mrs…’ replied the woman.
‘Goddard,’ said Mel.
‘Of course you can be present, Mrs Goddard,’ said the man.
She had known for days that something bad had occurred and though she had worried, she had not pushed him to explain. In truth she had feared to know.
‘I’ll get him up,’ she said. As she entered his room she murmured, ‘Jacob,’ then leant over him and touched his shoulder. He stirred, opened his eyes, turned to look at her and away again, pulling the duvet over his head.
‘It’s the police,’ she said. For a few seconds there was no movement. Then he threw back the duvet, said, ‘OK,’ and pulled himself up. He picked up a towel and disappeared out of the door. She heard the water running and went back to the sitting room where the officers were waiting.
‘He’s in the bathroom,’ she told them. ‘He won’t be long.’ She offered them coffee which they both declined.
‘I’m DS Williams,’ said the woman. ‘And this is DC Ali.’
They stood in an awkward triangle, Williams staring at the opposite wall, Ali surveying the books and pictures with interest, smiling when he occasionally caught Mel’s eye. Eventually, Jacob walked in, looking presentable in jeans and a dark shirt. He had combed his hair.
‘Jacob Villiers,’ said the woman officer, ‘we are investigating an assault on Nikita Vasiliev. You’re named in connection with the offence. We’d like you to come with us to the police station for questioning.’
Jacob looked at Mel. His face was white, and he mumbled, ‘Sorry, Mum.’ She swallowed. Everything inside her was dissolving; she was the shell of herself. He turned towards the door, standing straight, light shining on his glossy hair. She swallowed again. They would fight this together. She dug her nails into her palms to steady herself. She would stay calm for Jacob. She would stand by him, watch, listen. Jacob’s reaction suggested there was no mistake. He was, in some way, involved. For a moment she thought about concealing her profession. Let them get careless, make a mistake. She would spot it and the whole ridiculous charade would be thrown out. She reminded herself: he hadn’t been arrested. Possibly never would be. She needed to get a grip. She dug her nails in harder.
‘Your mum can stay with you,’ said Ali.
‘I’d like to call a solicitor,’ said Mel.
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Goddard. There’s a duty solicitor at the station.’
‘Thank you. But I’d prefer to call a couple of my own contacts. I’m a barrister,’ she added. The woman looked unimpressed but nodded her agreement.
Mel tapped in a familiar number. Lauren was good with juveniles and would be able to send someone even if she couldn’t make it herself. But there was no reply from the firm’s emergency contact number and Lauren’s personal phone went straight to voicemail. Mel scrolled through her work contacts. She couldn’t represent him herself. Not even at a preliminary interview. Even if she had bothered to attend the police station representation course, it would have been impossible. Professionals needed detachment. Still, she wished she had done the course. She would have been better alert to procedural slip ups. She knew the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. She thought she knew the Codes of Practice. But they were changing all the time and at this moment she wished she knew them better.
Jacob stood in silence. The officers waited as she tried a couple more numbers, reached voicemails and asked the speakers to call her on her mobile. She was surprised at how difficult it was to find someone. Didn’t solicitors want the work?
‘Come on, Jacob,’ said DS Williams, after the second call, ‘your mum can make calls on our way to the station.’ She laid her hand on Jacob’s back and ushered him towards his own front door. Mel felt the fury rise in her and, before she could stop herself, shouted. ‘How dare you! How dare you touch my son!’
‘Easy, Mrs Goddard. No need to get worked up,’ said Ali.
‘Just don’t touch him,’ she barked. She might not be able to represent him, but she knew how to stand firm for him. Jacob did not turn. She thought she detected him tremble slightly. For a moment they were, each of them, immobile. Then Williams dropped her hand and Jacob led the way, walking out in front of the two officers. Mel grabbed her bag and followed them out of the flat and into the back of police car, double parked on the road outside. Ali took the driver’s seat with Williams beside him. They surged into the heavy traffic. Jacob’s pale hand lay on the seat beside her. It looked too big for him. He was staring straight ahead. She laid her own hand on his. It was tiny against his long, curved fingers.
‘It’ll be all right,’ she whispered. ‘Just look them straight in the eye.’
He didn’t react. She could see a tiny twitch at the side of his face. She hadn’t seen it for years. He had grown out of it when he was ten and had stopped biting his fingernails.
On arrival at the station Jacob was immediately arrested. According to Williams, the complainant had made a clear statement naming her son as the assailant. Mel asked about bail and was assured it would be granted, on conditions. While the custody sergeant was logging the arrest, they were told the duty solicitor was available and had agreed to hold a conference with Jacob and attend the interview. Mel explained she was trying to contact a solicitor she knew and asked for time to make further enquiries. Her intervention seemed to wake something in Jacob. He gave her his penetrating look. The one which meant, ‘Why are you the most embarrassing mother in the world?’
‘Please, Mum. Let’s just get on with it,’ he said.
The duty solicitor was called Robert O’Hare. He was a weary-looking middle-aged man with a ruddy complexion, pin-prick eyes and a bulbous nose. There was nothing to suggest he would not be fine. Good looks were no indicator of expertise. Rather the contrary she had often found. The officers handed him an outline of the case. Mel asked to look at it and said she would join them for the conference.
‘Better not,’ said O’Hare. ‘Legal professional privilege. We don’t want police putting pressure on you to disclose what Jacob said.’
‘They wouldn’t succeed. I’m a barrister,’ she replied.
‘Excellent,’ said O’Hare, screwing up his eyes so that they looked like tiny dashes scored into his face. ‘That should keep them on their toes. Only what Jacob needs from you now is not knowledge of criminal law or police procedure. What he needs is a mother. Lucky chap. Lots of the kids I see here don’t have that. I’ll see him alone. What do you think, Jacob?’
‘You better stay outside, Mum. It’d be easier, like, for me to talk.’
‘Of course, darling, whatever feels right for you.’
The conference lasted half an hour. As Ja
cob came out the twitch was more pronounced. The police told her she was permitted to attend the interview as an appropriate adult. As if she didn’t know that. She took a few deep breaths. She needed to bottle the anger, stay composed for Jacob.
The interview room was a bleak grey box lit with three strip lights. There were no windows. The two police officers sat on one side on the table, Jacob, O’Hare and herself on the other. Williams pressed something on a tablet in front of her and started to speak, introducing them all, explaining each person’s name and function, giving the time, date, place and purpose of the interview, stating that they were being recorded, both visually and with sound, by a secured digital network. Mel noted the small shining ball, focused on Jacob, fixed to the ceiling by a short metal bracket. She thought about the network. How clever was it? Did it come complete with lie detection? What did it see, she wondered, as it logged Jacob’s hard, clenched expression?
Then Williams said, ‘Jacob Villiers, you do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you say may be given in evidence.’
He was not being charged. Not yet. He might never be charged. He had been arrested for the offence of ABH. The caution was merely a preliminary to asking him a few questions. She had not heard the outline of facts that had been given to O’Hare, but she was able to piece things together from the questions he was asked.
‘Jacob, can you tell us where you were on Thursday night?’
‘Thursday,’ he repeated. He was staring at the table, forgetting or perhaps disregarding Mel’s whispered advice about eye contact. She knew he was hopeless about days of the week.
‘Your last exam,’ she prompted.
‘Let him answer,’ said Williams.
‘You don’t have to answer, Jacob,’ said O’Hare. ‘Remember what I told you when we were alone. If you are unsure or want time to reflect, simply say, “no comment”. And if you want to talk to me privately or you want a break for any other reason just ask for it.’