Rich Again

by Anna Maxted

  The staffer dragged in a grey plastic chair. Mark wished there was a table. He wanted a barrier, however cosmetic. It was a small room and they were too close. There was a horrible intimacy. The heating was turned up full whack. They never got the temperature right. The room had the kid’s scent. He felt like a gazelle invited to tea in a lion’s den. This was a mistake. He should have insisted they met on neutral territory. My God, who was in charge here?

  The kid had big, dark eyes with long eyelashes. He was beautiful, in fact. It was incongruous, even though he knew better. Shit, he’d dropped his pen. He bent to retrieve it but Nathan was quicker.

  ‘Can I have my pen, please, Nathan?’ Voice friendly but firm.

  A slow grin. Ah God. Nathan was … rubbing the crotch of his jeans. Rubbing his dick with the pen. ‘Come and get it.’

  Fuck off, you pervert. ‘Nathan, I’d like my pen back.’ More rubbing. Mark sighed, standing up. ‘Nathan, I am not going to talk to you unless you give me that pen.’

  Nathan blinked, stopped rubbing, held out the pen with a contrite look on his face. ‘Sorry, Mark. Do you want your pen back?’

  See, see, he could do it! ‘Thank you, Nathan.’ He held out his hand to – shit! The little bastard had snatched it away again!

  Nathan was actually writhing with pleasure at Mark’s discomfort. Mark felt as if he might puke. Fine, all right, you know what, he’d fucking had it. Fucking builders, slave-wage employers, now this little arsepiece, treating him like an idiot. His voice came out a hiss. ‘Nathan, you can choose to be difficult, but let me lay this out for you. Your immediate future is not looking good. If your behaviour does not significantly improve, you are going to end up in an STC. You know what that is? A Secure Training Centre, run by Group 4. Prison guards. No clinical psychologists there, my friend. No cosy chats about how your head’s wired today. Let me tell you, the baby arsonists and rapists and murderers in STC beg me to find them crazy so they can scurry back to the cotton wool of secure care.’

  ‘A-hem.’

  Mark jumped. The staffer was right there. Just his crappy luck. ‘Mark, could I see you outside for a moment?’

  He couldn’t even look at Nathan. He didn’t want to see him gloat. ‘Yes, yes. Of course.’

  He placed his folder on the chair, stepped outside, his heart hammering. His cheeks were on fire, and the sweat was trickling from his sideburns. Tomorrow he was going to roll deodorant all over his face. Your skin felt tight, as if you were wearing a mask, but anything was better than this humiliation.

  ‘Mark. This won’t do. Are you under some sort of stress at home? You’re making it personal. You’re letting him get the better of you. I think we need to leave it for today. Do you think you’ll be able to cope with Nathan next week, or should I have a chat with your supervisor?’

  Oh, terrific.

  ‘I’ll be fine. It’s’ – may God forgive him – ‘my grandfather died. Last week.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. My condolences. Perhaps you need a few days to yourself.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Absolutely.’ Shit. ‘Well. I’ll just get my pen.’

  He couldn’t bring himself to say, like a five-year-old, Nathan took my pen! He’d fucking wrestle it off the little villain if he had to. His legs felt like rubber as he walked back into the cell. His face was carefully blank. He was frightened of an eleven-year-old. Nathan was lounging on the bed, whistling softly. His pen, he saw immediately, was lying on his folder on the chair.

  The folder. He’d left the folder in the cell. The folder with all its classified details of Nathan’s history: pathological and social. His skull filled with noise and he understood why people shot themselves in the head – anything to relieve that pressure. If anyone realized – if there were consequences – there were names in that folder. He’d be fired over this. Oh God, what was in there? Was it so bad? Yes. It was. Everything was in there. But then, Nathan didn’t know that. He was, after all, eleven. He had no interest in a grey folder! It didn’t look as though it had been touched. He glanced at Nathan’s expression. It was blithe; nasty little sociopath. Well, Nathan didn’t look as though he’d uncovered his secret past.

  ‘Nathan,’ he said, tasting the bile in his throat. See if there was any hint of a change, if Eve had bitten the apple. ‘I hope to see you next week.’

  Nathan stood up. Was that a smile? It seemed genuine. The boy opened his mouth and Mark wondered what vile obscenity would come out of it. Nathan cleared his throat. ‘Mark,’ he said – warmly? ‘I hope to see you too.’

  ESSEX, 1990

  Nathan

  Mark pushed his new glasses up his nose. They were Prada, very now, very Tom Cruise. And the number-one haircut at Toni & Guy was an excellent move, excellent! It disguised his receding hairline and rendered him cool in one fell swoop. Yeah. He was feeling good.

  ‘Morning!’ he sang to the staffer. It was great to be Mark Stevens today. If he breathed through his nose, he could smell Christopher’s aftershave lingering on his skin. The hilarious thing, all that guff about self-worth turned out to be true. He had done it. He was out and proud! And getting laid! But he deserved it. He was a good bloke.

  Nothing could spoil his mood today. From a professional standpoint – and he was the ultimate professional, with a commendation to prove it, let us not forget! – it was of interest, the primal need a man had to be successful in his career.

  He had Nathan Williams to thank.

  The work he’d done with Nathan was remarkable. Let’s spool through that satisfying memory again. ‘The work you’ve done with Nathan is remarkable.’ Those words, and the look of frank admiration on his supervisor’s face, gave Mark a thrill that was close to erotic. He knew Professor Heaton had rated him unexceptional. But now his work spoke for itself and the Prof was forced to eat humble pie.

  ‘The turnaround in Nathan’s attitude and mental state are exceptional.’

  Of course, he’d been modest, while toeing the party line, all, ‘Oh, yes, well, nothing good that Nathan did had ever been noticed … bad behaviours reinforced … merely a question of reinforcing those good behaviours … classic example of the subject needing discipline but also needing rewards … most effective way of changing bad to good … firm, consistent, warm … blah … blah … blah.’

  Cue fervent nodding, beaming smiles, pats on the back.

  It amused Mark that chartered clinical psychologists, with all their genius insights into the human psyche, were undoubtedly the most gullible section of the population – and among those most likely to be taken for a ride by disreputable workmen. (He’d ‘bonded’ with the Prof, over a beer, on the subject of cowboy builders who managed to fall through your bedroom ceiling into your bed. Fortunately – oh my sides! – he hadn’t been in it at the time!)

  His heart performed a small flip as he approached Nathan’s cell. It was so rewarding. Here was a kid labelled with a conduct disorder because of his aggression and lack of socialization. A kid with no friends; a kid who had always used violence to get what he wanted, who had therefore been excluded, his sense of empathy deadened, who had grown to be aloof and distant, and he, Mark, was the only person who had got through, the only person who had taken the trouble to teach him the skills he hadn’t learned. (‘What happened when you punched Jeremy? Everyone called you a wanker?’) Mark had shown him how the roles and rules of friendship worked, the ‘do you minds’ and the ‘how do you feels’.

  Mark felt justifiably proud.

  And now he had a little reward for Nathan. Well, a test first, and then, depending on the answer, a reward.

  Nathan was reading a book. Amazon Adventure. Here was another thing. The kid was smart as a whip. No one, except yours truly, had given him the credit.

  ‘Hello there. How are we today?’

  Nathan grinned. ‘Great, thanks. How are you, Mark?’

  ‘Fine, thank you very much. Hungover, but fine! I could murder a coffee though, and not the dried granule sort. How about I nip to Gianni’
s and get us both a cappuccino? Or a hot chocolate, if you prefer?’

  Nathan appeared to consider. ‘I’d like a hot chocolate, please.’

  Mark smiled. He carefully placed his copy of the Mirror (filthy rag), strategically left open at the relevant page, on the chair.

  As he turned to leave, he had the sense of Nathan reaching for the paper. Like giving candy to a baby.

  He was back in less than two minutes, having already purchased the drinks and left them in the office. ‘No queue,’ he said when Nathan looked up in surprise. Then, casually, ‘What’re you reading?’ He took a sip of his drink to disguise his nerves.

  Nathan flicked his fingers at the gossip page. ‘This thing about Innocence taking Emily to the Romanian orphanage.’

  Mark felt dizzy. ‘Right,’ he said. His worst fears, confirmed. ‘Right.’ Then, desperately hoping for an out, ‘I imagine that, given your history, anything to do with adoption is fairly poignant for you.’

  Nathan grimaced. ‘Well, yeah. But it’s not so much that. I know the Kent family.’

  Mark’s heart turned heavy and cold in his chest. So. There it was. One small error, a year ago, had enabled Nathan Williams to read his case notes and discover that an ex-member of the Sunday Times Rich List had, once upon a time, been his adoptive father. Mark’s hand actually felt weak, as if he might spill his cappuccino. He quickly placed it on the floor, grateful to be able to hide the horror on his face. ‘Oh, really? And … ?’

  Nathan laughed. ‘I probably shouldn’t tell you.’

  Mark laughed too. A feeble sound, more like a bleat. ‘I’m sure I can take it.’

  Nathan looked sorrowful. Oh God. Here it came. ‘Well, ages ago, I broke into their house.’

  Get lost! No way. Yes way! ‘Nathan’ – Mark tried to look stern, when in fact he wanted to shout ‘hooray’ – ‘as you say, it was a long time ago, and I’m sure you regret your mistakes.’

  ‘I totally do. That day, I made a very big mistake.’ There did seem to be deep regret in his voice. Phew. Mission accomplished. Danger averted. He was in the clear. But well done you for checking – God, he was thorough. What a pro! Now it was time to move swiftly on. His insides tingled with anticipation.

  ‘But, Nathan, you have made so many positive changes since. And in recognition of all that you’ve achieved, I have a surprise for you.’ He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder. This wasn’t exactly by the book, but there was no harm. It felt so satisfying to have Nathan’s … he wasn’t sure what … gratitude? Approval? He didn’t want to analyse it. Frankly, you could overdo the introspection.

  He paused. ‘Nathan, we’ve spent many hours discussing your emotions around the issue of being given up for adoption.’

  Nathan nodded.

  ‘Your post-natal separation from your biological mother, we concluded, was an interruption of your natural evolution, and it had profound consequences on your state of mind.’

  Nathan nodded again. There was a slight tremble of his lower lip. Mark pursed his own lips in sympathy. ‘Clinically, being so abruptly robbed of the mental and physical bonding that began inside the womb left you with a bewildering, albeit unconscious sense of abandonment. Ever since your mother gave you up, you have felt incomplete, as if a part of your heart was missing, presumed dead.’

  ‘Yes,’ sighed Nathan, a sigh of the soul.

  Drum roll please. ‘Well. I’ve done a little bit of detective work, Nathan. I traced the agency you were placed with, shortly after your birth. It’s now defunct, but all post was forwarded to the body that took over. They filed the lot. And, to cut a long story short’ – he could feel himself blushing – ‘I have something for you.’

  He slid the envelope out of his pocket.

  Nathan didn’t move.

  ‘Check it out.’

  Slowly, Nathan reached for the envelope. Mark imagined the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, the depiction of man touching the hand of God. It was that significant: a tiny miracle that meant so very much to one underprivileged boy.

  I write this desperately hoping it will reach you and that you will find it in your heart to forgive me for what I did. I was too young to know what I was giving up and I pray that your life has been filled with love. Not a day goes by when I don’t think of you and ache to hold you in my arms. All I want to do is to come and get you and never let you go but no one will tell me where you are – so unfair, so unkind. Please, please, come and find me, my darling son – I will be waiting for you.

  Mark watched his face intently. He wanted to see Nathan’s reaction. In porn they called it the money shot.

  He wasn’t disappointed. As Nathan’s molten brown eyes scanned the letter, they slowly widened. His face drained of colour and his hands shook. He gazed at Mark unseeingly, as if he were in a trance. He swallowed, repeatedly, and for a horrible second, Mark thought he was going to vomit.

  But then he said, ‘Thank you,’ in a hoarse voice, and managed a weak smile. He was in shock, of course. It was understandable.

  Mark felt light and happy – he was a soppy old sod. But why shouldn’t he feel good? He had achieved something that not many people achieved in their lives. He’d had the guts to break free of the rules to help a kid with promise, a kid who’d had a lousy run, who was misunderstood, and who deserved a break. Mark had given him that break – he had made a difference.

  TWO HOURS LATER

  Nathan

  ‘I would like you to mould an image of how you see yourself,’ trilled Miss Lawson, the art-therapy teacher.

  Nathan’s breath came smooth and deep as he concentrated on shaping the football-sized lump of clay. He hummed as he pressed and pummelled it. It felt so good to create, as if he were a god, but with one difference: he was creating his world after the betrayal. In his beginning, there was evil.

  Nathan pressed his fingers tentatively into the sticky brown surface.

  ‘See yourself,’ said the teacher. ‘SEE YOURSELF.’

  He closed his eyes. Where would he begin? What was he? There were no mirrors in the room. Quietly, discreetly, he drew up a hand to touch his skin. He shook his head. When was the last time he had even looked in a mirror? He had to look in mirrors, didn’t he? What about photos? The home outing to Southend: there was a picture of him there. Could he remember that? Grey sweater, grey shorts, scuffed shoes. A single scoop of ice cream running down his knuckles. That had been the day he’d seen the board. The big board with the painting on. The painting of the silly, drunk family. The kind anyone could walk up behind and stick their face in and get some cheeky memento of their holiday. A mother, a father and baby. All with their faces missing. Mr Davis said they weren’t allowed to climb up and have their picture taken but some of them did. Nathan froze looking at it, staring at the baby with the missing face. The stupid parents: ignorant, drunk, cavorting. The fat faces filling up the holes, contorted, laughing, screeching; his ice cream melting.

  His fingers tightened around the clay. He pushed them in, his thumbs gouging pits for eyes. Who was he kidding? He had no eyes. No face. No mother.

  The liar’s words ran through his head over and over like a chant. My darling son my darling son. Nathan stopped and curled over, gasping with laughter as the blood roared in his ears.

  Miss Lawson was by his side in a second, her thin fingers grabbing at his wrist. ‘Nathan, dear, would you like to start again? You seem to have made a mess.’

  Nathan looked up at her. Slowly her face came into focus. She had a long grey plait and the sweet female stink of her made him feel sick.

  ‘Shall we start again?’

  He looked down. His fingers had carved long strips from the unmade eyes. His nails had dragged clots of dried clay, strewn them across the table. His mouth, punctured by two fingers, was nothing more than a puckered scream, as if he were gagging himself with his own hands.

  ‘Take your hand away, Nathan. Let’s start again.’

  It was perfect.

  ‘I’ve finished, Miss
Lawson.’

  ‘But, Nathan, are you sure? To me, it looks as if you have just begun.’

  ‘That’s right, Miss Lawson.’ He smiled and made his eyes crinkle. ‘You are exactly right. I have finished and I have just begun.’

  BOOK THREE

  FRENCH POLYNESIA, 1982

  Claudia

  Claudia scraped at the hot surface of the sand with a yellow spade and wished that Mummy would come back from the dead. She hated Innocence. And she hated Daddy. She hated school. She hated sleeping at the new school and only coming home in the holidays. She hated home. She wished she could live with Ruth and JR, but Daddy wouldn’t allow it. Ruth lived at her own house now, and Claudia hardly saw her ever. Claudia had hoped that Ruth would be invited to the hotel party, and come on the private plane with them, but Ruth said she couldn’t leave JR since JR bit his sitter.

  Claudia sighed. It was a desert island and amazingly hot. Nanny had put sun cream on her and some of it had gone in her eyes and stung. Nanny was in bed with a migraine, an extremely terrible pain in her head that made her sick and shout at people to whisper. She’d told Claudia to read James and the Giant Peach, but it was dark in the room, and the door of the villa came open if you pushed, and there outside was the beach and the sea and it was all so beautiful and bright. Claudia wanted to swim to the clouds, but Nanny had said there were sharks in the water.

  It wasn’t dangerous though, because she was a fast swimmer. She and Alfie, whom she was (secretly) going to marry, had lessons together, in her pool with that nice bald man, Duncan, who swam for his job.

  She wished Alfie was with her but he was allergic to the heat. He was inside the hotel with his daddy, Harry, sitting by the fan in a hat and long sleeves. She liked Harry. He was fun. He threw her in the air and caught her, even though, at seven, she was much too big for that sort of thing. Her daddy wasn’t fun. He was always away on work. And when he was away on work, Innocence was mean to her. She hated school, the food was disgusting, but she hated coming home too.