Lucas

by Kevin Brooks

  They were just questions. I didn’t have any answers.

  Simon had heard about the incident at the cliffs. His dad had heard from someone at the pub – who’d heard from someone whose brother knew someone who’d actually been there – that young Kylie Coombe had dived from the raft in an effort to impress some boys on the beach.

  ‘That’s rubbish,’ I said. ‘She fell off the raft. I was there, Simon, I saw it happen. She slipped and fell, that’s all.’

  ‘What about this gypsy boy?’

  ‘Oh, Christ! Not you, too?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s not a gypsy. Why does everyone think he’s a gypsy? He’s just a boy. And even if he was a gypsy … I mean, so what? What’s wrong with gypsies? They’re not monsters, are they? God! What’s the matter with people around here? It’s like living with a bunch of damn hillbillies.’

  The line was quiet.

  ‘I didn’t mean you,’ I sighed. ‘Simon?’

  ‘I was only asking.’

  ‘I know … I’m sorry. It just annoys me when people make stupid assumptions about things they don’t understand. What did you hear about Luc—’ I stopped myself just in time. ‘What did you hear about this boy? What are they saying about him?’

  He hesitated. I think my outburst had frightened him a little. ‘It depends who you listen to,’ he said cautiously. ‘According to some, Kylie was in trouble. The sea was a bit rough and she was heading for the rocks when the boy dived in and pulled her out.’

  ‘And according to others?’

  He lowered his voice. ‘Ellen’s saying that he was … you know … that he was messing around with her. She says she’s got witnesses to back her up.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know – I’m only telling you what I’ve heard.’

  I took a deep breath, calming myself. ‘Listen, Simon,’ I said. ‘You tell your dad, and anyone else who wants to know, that Ellen Coombe is a liar. I was there, I saw the whole thing. Kylie was drowning. While everyone else was standing around doing nothing, Lucas dived in and saved her. He didn’t touch her, he didn’t hurt her, he didn’t do anything wrong. All right? He didn’t do anything wrong.’

  ‘OK,’ he said defensively.

  ‘Look, I’m not having a go at you or your dad. I know it’s not your fault. I’m just telling you what happened.’

  There was a short silence. Then Simon said, ‘How do you know his name?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You called him Lucas.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Barely pausing to think, I said, ‘Joe Rampton told me. Lucas did some work for him. That’s what he said his name was … Lucas … Old Joe told me.’

  ‘I see.’

  He didn’t sound too convinced – but, frankly, I wasn’t that bothered. Why should I be? I had my own life to lead, didn’t I? I didn’t have to tell Simon everything. I mean, it wasn’t as if he was my boyfriend or anything. And even if he was … well, he wasn’t. He was just a friend. If I didn’t want him to know about Lucas … well, so what?

  The more you lie, the easier it gets.

  The only trouble is, after a while you end up lying to yourself.

  Anyway, I arranged to meet with Simon on Wednesday to finalise our arrangements for the festival. I didn’t feel too enthusiastic about it, and I suppose – if I’m honest – I was just trying to make amends for letting him down on Friday. It was a bit awkward at first. I didn’t know how he’d react if I suggested he come over here, but I didn’t really want to meet him at his house, either. It was hard to find the right words. He wasn’t much help, he just kept humming and ha-ing while I jabbered away like a fool. In the end I simply said, ‘All right, I’ll see you here at six. OK?’

  ‘At your house?’

  ‘Yes. Wednesday. Six o’clock.’

  ‘Uh … right, OK.’

  ‘And don’t worry,’ I said, trying to make a joke of it. ‘I’ll be here. I promise. I’ll be waiting at the door … if I’m not …’ I tried to think of something funny to say, some hilarious forfeit I’d make if I broke my word. But I couldn’t think of a damn thing. So I just said, ‘I’ll be here. Trust me.’

  ‘OK,’ he mumbled.

  Afterwards I went upstairs and wrote SIMON – WED @ 6 on a dozen large Post-it notes, and stuck the notes all around my room. On the walls, on the clock, on the ceiling above my bed, on the mirror, I even stuck one in my knicker drawer.

  It was all very well trying to kid myself that I didn’t care, that I wasn’t bothered, that I had my own life to lead … but I still had a conscience. My heart might not care, but my head knew better.

  I spent the rest of the day sitting around in my room doing nothing – reading, thinking, staring out of the window – just waiting for the hours to pass. I didn’t know what I was waiting for. I didn’t really care.

  The house had a strange feel to it. It felt cold and clammy, like a house that’s been empty for a long time. Windows rattled in the wind. Floorboards creaked. The air sighed in the weary light. I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling. I could hear the water tank dripping in the attic – tack, tock, tock … tack, tock, tock … tack, tock, tock – like a hesitant clock. It was a strangely hypnotic sound, and as I listened to it my mind drifted up through the ceiling and I imagined the draught of cold attic air and the smell of soot and old wood. In my mind I could see the dark beams and the scarred rafters and the light of the sky glinting through the cracked slate tiles. I could hear the rain ticking on the roof and birds scratching in the eaves … and I was there. I was a child again, playing alone in my attic world. It was a world of dusty things hanging from beams: coils of rope, shapeless bags, old coats, cardboard boxes, bits of wood, rolls of carpet, tins of paint, broken suitcases, stacks of yellowed newspapers tied with string … it was a world that was anything I wanted it to be. I could make a den out of an old piece of sheet draped over the beams and pretend I was marooned on a desert island, or lost in the woods …

  A door slammed downstairs, and the memory vanished.

  I was back in my room again. I wasn’t a child. I was fifteen years old. In less than a year I’d be old enough to get married and have a child of my own. The thought sent a shiver down my spine.

  eight

  T

  uesday started off dull and cold, but as the day wore on the sun rose through a haze of mist and the over-cast sky gradually blossomed into a glorious sheen of blue. By mid-afternoon the air was filled with a sweltering heat that turned your limbs to lead. It was almost too hot to move. Even the sea seemed to be suffering. It just lay there, barely stirring in the heat, too breathless to raise a breeze.

  Dad and I drove into the village to pick up some groceries and a couple of magazines. We got the groceries from the village store. It’s more expensive than Sainsbury’s or Tesco’s on the mainland, but Dad has a friendly arrangement with the man who runs the store – Shev Patel. Dad buys his groceries from Shev, and Shev keeps a supply of Irish whiskey for him. They both cheat, of course. Dad gets Rita Gray to buy him stuff from Sainsbury’s whenever she goes, and Shev overcharges Dad for the whiskey. But neither of them seems to mind.

  When we got back to the house there was a police car parked in the yard and Lenny Craine was sitting on the front step mopping his brow. He’s a big man, with one of those big men’s bellies that seem to start at the neck and continue down to the knees. He’s scruffy, too. His tunic was undone, his shirt unbuttoned, and his face was glistening red. Dad parked the car and Lenny came over and helped us inside with the shopping.

  In the kitchen, Dad got cold beers for himself and Lenny, and a Coke for me, and we all sat down at the table. Lenny had to pull the chair away from the table to make room for his belly. A slight groan escaped from his lips as he lowered himself into the chair, a mixture of tiredness and the strain of being overweight. He popped his beer, took a long drink, then wiped the froth from his mouth. He looked worn out. Dark circles rin
ged his eyes and his skin was sallow. His sparse hair had that lustreless look that comes from working too hard.

  Dad was obviously of the same opinion. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, Len, but you look like crap.’

  Lenny smiled. ‘Thanks.’ He sipped his beer and looked at me. ‘And how are you, Caitlin? Still keeping your old dad on the straight and narrow?’ His tone was cheery but I could sense the concern in his eyes. He really cared about Dad.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Everything’s fine.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I hear Dom’s back?’

  ‘Not so you’d notice,’ Dad said sourly.

  He offered Lenny a cigarette.

  Lenny shook his head and pulled some papers from his pocket. He laid them out on the table. ‘I need to take your statements about what happened at the regatta.’

  ‘Is Ellen Coombe still pressing charges?’ Dad asked.

  Lenny sighed. ‘I don’t think she knows what she’s doing. One minute she’s ranting and raving about having the boy locked up, the next she’s complaining about police harassment. I think she just enjoys being in the limelight.’

  ‘So why don’t you tell her to get lost? You know it’s all bullshit.’

  Lenny looked hesitant. ‘It’s a bit more complicated than that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Lenny stared at the table for a moment without answering. Eventually he said, ‘Look, we have to be extremely careful with this kind of thing. You know what it’s been like with all the recent media coverage. We have to make sure that every angle is covered, we have to be thorough.’

  ‘So?’ said Dad.

  Lenny went on. ‘I’ve talked to everyone who was on the cliffs that day, at least everyone who admits to being there. And I’ve also spoken at length with the boy.’

  ‘You’ve interviewed Lucas?’ I said.

  Lenny nodded. ‘I had to.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  He looked at me. ‘How well do you know him?’

  Suddenly, the room seemed very quiet. I could hear my heart beating. When I spoke I couldn’t keep a tremor from my voice.

  ‘I don’t know him very well,’ I said. ‘I’ve met him on the beach a couple of times, that’s all.’

  Lenny nodded slowly. He looked at Dad. ‘Mac?’

  Dad shook his head. ‘I’ve not had the pleasure.’

  Lenny turned to me again. ‘What do you think of him?’

  I could feel myself blushing. ‘I think … well, I don’t know … I think he’s nice. I know he wouldn’t hurt anyone. He didn’t hurt anyone.’

  Lenny didn’t say anything, he just looked at me. There was a strange look in his eye, a look that was almost fearful, but not quite. An odd mixture of curiosity, wariness, and uncertainty.

  ‘Did he tell you anything about himself?’ he asked me.

  ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘What did he tell you?’

  Lenny smiled. ‘That’s confidential, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Ah, come on, Lenny,’ Dad interrupted. ‘This is us you’re talking to. You’re not in the witness box now. Spill the beans, man.’

  ‘I can’t, John. It’s not allowed.’

  ‘And drinking on duty is allowed, is it?’

  ‘That’s different—’

  Dad grinned. ‘I’ll tell you what – you tell us about the boy and we won’t grass you up for drinking on duty. And I’ll get you another cold one. How’s that for a deal?’

  Lenny smiled. ‘You’re an evil man, John McCann.’

  ‘’Tis an evil world, Lenny Craine,’ Dad replied. ‘Now, what about this boy?’

  Lenny had gone looking for Lucas on the Sunday after the regatta. He hadn’t known exactly where to find him, so he’d just set off along the beach with one of the island’s two police constables, a young man called Pete Curtis. They’d heard that Lucas had done some work for Joe Rampton, and they’d also heard rumours about someone camping out in the woods, so their plan was to check along the beach, call in at Joe’s, and then head on out to the Point. But they’d barely started walking when Pete Curtis nudged Lenny and said, ‘Is that him?’

  Lenny had looked up to see Lucas walking towards them along the beach.

  ‘He didn’t seem too bothered about anything,’ Lenny told us. ‘He just walked up with a smile on his face, held out his hand, and said, “My name’s Lucas. I expect you’re looking for me.”’

  ‘How did he know where to find you?’ Dad asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lenny said. ‘It was a bit strange, to be honest.’ There was a brief silence as Lenny gazed thoughtfully out of the window, rubbing at the back of his neck, then he shook his head, breathed in, and went on with the story. ‘We took him to the station, explained that a complaint had been made, and that we’d like to ask him some questions. He seemed happy enough with that. When we told him he wasn’t under arrest and that he was free to consult a solicitor, he just smiled and said that wouldn’t be necessary. So, we sat him down and started with the usual things – name, age, address … and that’s when it all went a bit loopy.’

  ‘Loopy?’ I said.

  Lenny frowned. ‘He told us his name was Lucas. When I asked if that was his first or last name, he just looked at me and said, “Neither. It’s just Lucas.” I said, “What do you mean? You can’t have just one name.” And he said, “It’s not a crime, is it?”’

  Dad laughed. ‘Well, is it?’

  Lenny shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I’ve got someone looking into it.’

  ‘Didn’t he have any ID?’ Dad asked.

  ‘Nothing. No birth certificate, no driving licence, no medical card, not a thing. All he had in his pockets was a penknife and some tobacco.’

  I said, ‘Can’t you trace him on your computer records?’

  ‘Not with just the one name, no.’

  Dad said, ‘Didn’t you ask him to explain why he’s only got one name?’

  ‘Of course I did. I spent the best part of an hour on it. All I got out of him was that he didn’t know when or where he was born, that he was an orphan, and that he couldn’t remember the names or whereabouts of any of the homes he’d been brought up in.’

  I remembered the photograph on the wall in Lucas’s den, the pretty young woman with the spiky blonde hair and dark eyes. And I remembered Lucas saying – It’s my mother. That was taken about fifteen years ago … I think she’s probably dead …

  ‘What about his age?’ I said. ‘Did he say how old he was?’

  ‘Sixteen,’ Lenny replied. ‘Which, if it’s true, means he’s free to live how and where he likes. Which is exactly what he’s doing.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked Dad.

  ‘He just drifts around from place to place. He does a bit of work now and then if he needs the money, but most of the time he seems to make do by living off the land. Fishing, rabbits, wild fruits, berries …’

  ‘A regular Robinson Crusoe,’ Dad said.

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Well, good for him.’

  Lenny shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Mac. It doesn’t seem right.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, firstly, I’m not sure if I believe him. All this mystery stuff about who he is and where he comes from … it’s a fair bet he’s wanted for something somewhere, and he knows that if he gives us his real name he’s going to be locked up or sent back to wherever he came from.’

  ‘Is that what you really think?’ I asked.

  He looked at me. ‘It’s what my experience tells me, Cait.’

  ‘But what do you think?’

  He paused for a while, then said, ‘I honestly don’t know. Even if it is true, even if he is some kind of harmless nomad, just wandering around all over the place, I’m not sure I like it.’

  ‘Why not?’ Dad asked.

  ‘He’s just a kid, Mac. He should have someone looking after him. It’s not a nice world out there … I mean, look at this mess he’s got himself into now.’

&nb
sp; ‘What mess?’ Dad said. ‘He saved a girl from drowning – where’s the mess in that?’

  Lenny looked uncomfortable. ‘There are conflicting reports as to what actually happened.’

  Dad frowned. ‘I told you what happened. The girl was drowning, Lenny. Lucas dived in and pulled her out. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘Not according to other witnesses.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Ellen Coombe, for one.’

  ‘But she didn’t see anything. She only turned up after Lucas had pulled Kylie from the sea. She saw him with her daughter, she saw the state she was in, and she jumped to the wrong conclusion. All he was doing was trying to make the girl look decent.’

  Lenny took a sip of beer and looked at me. ‘Is that how you saw it, too?’

  ‘That’s how it was,’ I told him.

  Dad sighed. ‘I don’t see what the problem is, Len.’

  ‘The problem is, I’ve got half a dozen witnesses who back up Ellen’s version of events.’

  ‘Well, they’re lying,’ Dad said simply. ‘Either that, or they’re blind. Who are they?’

  Lenny didn’t answer immediately. He took a deep breath and rolled his head back to stare at the ceiling. I knew what was coming, but even so, when he finally breathed out and began to speak, I was still shocked to hear the names.

  ‘Jamie Tait,’ he said. ‘Bill Gray, Robbie and Angel Dean, Sara Toms …’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ Dad said angrily.

  ‘They were there, Mac. I’ve confirmed it. They saw what happened.’

  ‘I know they were there,’ Dad spat. ‘They were hanging around on the rocks pissing in the wind while Kylie Coombe was drowning—’