Kill With Kindness

by Ed James

  ‘This is the first I’ve heard. Honestly.’ Derek’s head fell forward. ‘Elliot . . . He’s not a bad lad, just . . . When I was a boy back in Dublin, I was a bit cheeky, you know. Like I say, boys will be boys and all that, but . . . Elliot’s out of control. We can’t keep him from doing whatever he wants . . . We threatened to go to the police before, but it just bounces off him, you know?’

  ‘You maybe need to follow through on the threat.’

  Derek just shrugged.

  ‘Sir, I’ll be honest with you. Elliot almost died this evening. I saved his life.’ Fenchurch waved down the corridor. ‘When I picked him up, he was showing all the signs of serotonin syndrome. Dr Mulkalwar is undertaking tests to confirm that the ecstasy he took was going to kill him.’

  ‘Ecstasy?’

  ‘There’s a batch called Blockchain on the streets just now. It’s very strong. If you’re not aware of what you’re taking or you’re inexperienced, it can be fatal.’

  Derek didn’t look too bothered. Like his son’s death would solve a problem, more than anything. He walked off, shaking his head like he’d been wronged. Like he’d not raised a boy with no care or attention, let him run wild.

  I’d give almost everything to have raised Chloe. Same for the chance to raise Al. And people like him, just barrelling through life like—

  Fenchurch’s phone rang. Abi. He answered, the spiders crawling up his spine again. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Simon, the doctor’s taken Al away again! He won’t tell me what’s going on!’

  Fenchurch started running, pushing his dodgy knee.

  Not again . . .

  Chapter Sixteen

  Fenchurch charged down the corridor. His feet felt like lead, when he needed feathers. He pushed through the door. Abi sat on the chair, head low, face screwed up in grief. Chloe hugged her, stroking her arm. The inversion of what it should be. Abi looked up at him. ‘They took him!’ Her eyes were red-raw.

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘They did!’

  Not getting anywhere with this . . .

  Fenchurch switched his attention to Chloe. ‘What happened?’

  Chloe frowned, letting Abi pull her closer. ‘We were sitting here, playing with Al. It was like he was going to walk, Dad.’ She let go of her mother and walked over to the cot, shaking the mobile hanging above it, a pale-blue whale hanging out with its mates — a fish, a crab and an octopus. The cot was empty. ‘That doctor came in and grabbed him. Big guy. Grey hair, grey suit.’

  ‘Stephenson?’

  ‘That’s him.’ Chloe’s frown deepened, her breath speeding up. ‘He took Al. A nurse spoke to us, said they needed to do tests.’

  ‘Was it like—’ Fenchurch’s voice caught in his throat, stuck in the quicksand. He coughed and cleared it. ‘Was it like when he was born?’

  ‘It was.’ Abi was leaning against the side of the cot, breathing hard, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘Just like the last time.’

  Fenchurch grabbed her in a hug, rubbing a hand down her back. Trying to reassure her, but his heart pounded in his temple, in his chest, up his arm. ‘It’s okay.’ He tried to keep his voice level, stop any of the fear bleeding through.

  ‘Mum, I’m sure this is normal.’ Chloe squeezed Abi’s hand, her face showing the same twist of emotions as Fenchurch. ‘Right, Dad?’

  Fenchurch could only nod. He stared deep into Abi’s eyes, smiling like he could suck out all the pain and fear and darkness. ‘I’ll see what’s going on.’ One last forced smile and he left them, stepping into the corridor.

  Stephenson was standing out there, staring into space, his head rocking slightly, biting his cheek, his face distorted like he’d had a stroke. He jerked back, hands raised. ‘Ah, I need to—’

  ‘No.’ Fenchurch grabbed his arm tightly. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Let go!’ Stephenson stared at Fenchurch’s hand until he complied. ‘Listen—’

  ‘No, you listen to me. You don’t take my son away without explaining to my wife what the hell is going on.’

  ‘Right. I’m sorry.’ Stephenson thought it through, his lips quivering. ‘I didn’t know if it would be a goer, that’s all.’

  ‘What would be? You need to start talking.’

  ‘I’ve been in touch with a colleague, a specialist in congenital heart defects. He’s in London for a conference. I spoke to him at lunchtime and briefed him on Baby Al’s condition.’ A smile crept over his lips, lifting some of the gloom. ‘He’s agreed to assist.’

  Fenchurch felt a surge of joy, spearing his heart.

  ‘Keith Oates, pleasure to meet you.’ A short doctor stood behind Stephenson, almost as wide as he was tall, rocking Baby Al in his arms. He held out his right hand, still holding the baby in perfect balance. ‘This little guy’s a heck of a kicker. Might get him playing for Harlequins.’

  ‘He’s going to play for West Ham.’

  ‘A soccer man, eh?’ Oates handed Al to Fenchurch, taking care that he held him just right. ‘Well, come on.’ He led into the room, Stephenson following.

  Fenchurch held Al close, smelling his head again, tears stinging his nose. The little bugger was wriggling, but grinning at his old man. What I wouldn’t give to see him turn into an old man. He gave him one last cuddle, then took him into the room and handed him to Abi.

  ‘Now . . .’ Oates was leaning against the cot. Looked like he could sleep in it. ‘I’ve had a good look at Baby Al and, like I just told his daddy here, the boy’s a fighter. I’m going to do everything in the power that God has given me to save him.’

  Abi hugged Al tight, suspicion crawling over her face. ‘What power?’

  ‘As Mr Stephenson has no doubt briefed you, I’m the NHS’s primary specialist in congenital heart defects. The last six months, I’ve been based at the Cleveland Clinic in Ohio. Number one for cardiology in the States, meaning it’s the best in the world.’

  Stephenson lurked by the door, but couldn’t look at any of them. ‘Mr Oates has been working on—’

  ‘They get it. I’m the best there is.’ Oates held up his hands and gave a humble shrug. ‘Atrial septal defects is my specialty. Basically, the “hole in the heart” that young Alan here suffers from.’ His eyes were hooded by his thick cranium. ‘It’s quite common, more than two babies per thousand. You’ll know that the standard treatment is to insert a device into the heart to encourage Al’s own tissue to grow in the exact way we want.’

  Fenchurch focused on Al’s chest, hidden under the cream onesie. ‘But it’s not?’

  ‘The hole is growing.’

  Fenchurch locked eyes with Oates. ‘How long has he got?’

  ‘We’re nowhere near that stage, my friend.’ Oates reached over to tickle Al’s chin as Abi held him. ‘The surgery will close the ASD and prevent it from reappearing. It’ll be like Al’s never even had it. He’ll be happy and healthy. Might even play for West Ham.’

  Fenchurch let out a breath. Felt light-headed and giddy.

  Abi glared at Stephenson. ‘Why hasn’t this been tried before?’

  ‘Because you want the body winning the battle on its own.’ Oates pinched Al’s cheek. ‘The vast majority of cases resolve with the regrowth technique. There are risks, of course. But, if you don’t want to throw the dice and have the surgery, then Al will be in here for six months, and his heart will just stop beating.’

  ‘I can’t deal with that.’ Abi’s damp eyes pleaded with Fenchurch. ‘We need to give him the chance.’

  Fenchurch could taste the bitter fear in amongst the sweet hope. ‘What happens if the surgery fails?’

  ‘With these hands?’ Oates held them up and twisted round to let everyone get a look, his confident grin lurking for a few seconds. ‘You need time to think it through?’

  Abi kissed Baby Al, her forehead creased, lips pursed. She gave a nod and Fenchurch passed it on to Oates.

  Fenchurch stopped at the lights at the start of Upper Street. The car was baking hot and he was sweating.<
br />
  Putting our son’s life in the hands of a surgeon we’ve just met . . . Is that the right thing to do?

  Do we have any other choice?

  He set off and took the left turning.

  What if he’s overconfident? What if Stephenson’s the better bet? He saw Al in the womb, ran the tests, then led us through the worst of it so far.

  But he had the humility to plead with a rock-star surgeon, persuading him to look at Baby Al. That shows it’s the right thing to do, doesn’t it?

  Fenchurch pulled up opposite Abi’s car. She was still behind the wheel, staring into space. Chloe got out on to the street and hugged someone.

  Fenchurch joined her on the pavement. And let out a groan. ‘Dad.’

  ‘All right, son.’ Dad was swaying, battling gravity, clinging to Chloe. The whisky fumes wafted from him. ‘Just back from the wake. Poor old Doc. Poor old Al.’

  ‘Looks like it was fun.’ Fenchurch opened the stairwell door. Abi was still in her car. ‘You coming in?’

  ‘Can’t stay, son.’ Dad squinted at his brand-new phone, then dropped it. He scrambled about, trying to pick it up. Then fell forward, flat on his face. Fenchurch had to help him up. Could taste the whisky coming from his pores. ‘Chloe texted me. Can’t for the life of me figure out how this blessed thing works.’

  ‘I’ll show you, Grandpa.’

  ‘Not just now, Chloe, love.’ Dad burped and it turned into a long yawn. ‘What was the text about?’

  ‘Hope, Dad. Hope. For Al.’

  ‘I’ve always had hope for that little sod.’ Dad put his phone away. Almost lost his balance again. ‘I want to see him lighting up the London Stadium, son. Number 9, Fenchurch on his back. Maybe even England. Who needs Harry Kane when we’ve got Al Fenchurch?’ Dad grabbed Chloe’s cheek and squeezed. ‘Sure you don’t want a trial with West Ham Ladies?’

  Chloe nudged his hand away. ‘You need a cup of tea.’

  ‘I need my bed.’ Dad staggered off down the road, using his hand to feel his way past the buildings. ‘See you later.’

  Fenchurch followed him. ‘Dad, I’ll give you a lift.’

  ‘I’ll get a cab, son.’ Dad waved Fenchurch off. ‘You spend time with your family.’ And he was gone.

  Fenchurch watched him flag down a cab, then walked back to the flat. ‘Daft old goat.’

  ‘He’s something else, isn’t he?’ Chloe pushed open the door and entered the building.

  ‘I’ll be up in a minute.’ Fenchurch opened Abi’s passenger door and crouched. ‘You okay, love?’

  ‘I’m good, actually.’ She leaned back against the headrest, smiling. Then she got out and joined him on the pavement, her car’s lights flashing as she locked it. ‘One day soon, we’ll have both kids under one roof.’

  Fenchurch grabbed her hand and followed her inside. ‘Thought you had three children?’

  ‘Chloe’s growing up, Simon. It’s just you and Al.’

  Fenchurch laughed all the way up the stairs. Felt good. Felt right. Normal.

  Abi was still coasting on the smile. ‘Two years ago, I was on my own. It’s a big flat just for one person. It’ll be nice to have them both here.’ She led him inside.

  The kettle was boiling in the kitchen. Chloe was at the table, going through her post. Only took her two days to get round to it, a lot less time than her old man. ‘Here we go.’ She showed a glossy prospectus to Abi. Dundee University.

  Fenchurch groaned. ‘Dundee, really?’

  ‘Their teacher training course is supposed to be good.’

  ‘Much better than the one I did.’ Abi took the booklet and sat next to her daughter. ‘And you don’t have to do it in the evenings.’

  ‘Those were long, hard months.’ Fenchurch sat opposite, his tiredness hitting him. ‘But we got through them.’

  Chloe looked up from the prospectus. ‘No regrets?’

  ‘Not for a second.’

  Chloe let her mother kiss her, then walked over to pour out her camomile tea. ‘You guys want anything?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Abi was staring at the prospectus again.

  Fenchurch smiled at his daughter. ‘I’m drowning in tea, love.’

  She poured in some cold water then blew on her tea. ‘Early start tomorrow. No rest for the wicked.’ She trudged off with a wave.

  Fenchurch watched her go. The weird reality of their long-missing daughter back under their roof hit him again. Hit him hard.

  ‘Chloe!’ Abi got up and darted over to the door. ‘You got any ideas what I can make Pete for dinner tomorrow?’

  ‘What?’ Chloe frowned. Then her eyes bulged. ‘Crap, I forgot.’

  ‘We can reschedule.’

  ‘No, let’s do it. He likes Thai and Mexican.’

  ‘Just like your father.’ Abi pecked her on the cheek. ‘Sweet dreams.’

  ‘You don’t have to tuck me in, Mum.’

  ‘Okay. Sorry. Goodnight.’ Abi waited until Chloe’s bedroom door clicked shut then sat down, scowling. ‘Wish I did.’

  ‘I know.’ Fenchurch reached across the table and held her hands. ‘Oh. I met someone who knows you. Brendan Holding.’

  ‘Christ, that takes me back.’ Abi stared up at the ceiling. ‘Brendan Holding, eh?’ She blew air up her face. ‘We worked together at Lewisham before I moved to Highbury.’

  ‘Should I be worried?’

  ‘As if.’ Abi’s shoulders slouched. ‘What’s the case?’

  ‘The victim’s a teacher at Shadwell Grammar. Gayle Fisher. Know her?’

  She pulled her hands away. ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘We’ve got the pleasure of this Pete’s company tomorrow?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you forgot too?’

  ‘Love, my son’s in hospital and my boss has just been put in the ground. Cut me some slack.’

  ‘Nothing to do with Pete being the same age as you?’

  Fenchurch looked away. ‘Of course not.’

  Of course it is. Guy’s twice her age. She should be finding out who she is, not settling for some old bastard like her dad.

  Fenchurch picked up the prospectus. ‘Dundee?’

  ‘She’s right. It’s a good course. Not a lot in London for a trainee teacher these days.’

  ‘Her going off again, though. These last few months are time we never thought we’d have.’ Fenchurch laughed, then it caught in his throat, back in the quicksand he’d let build up.

  ‘What if this surgery goes wrong, Simon?’ She leaned forward, resting her eyes on her palms, elbows cracking off the table. ‘We’ve got our daughter back, but we’re going to lose our son.’

  ‘It’s not like that. There’s no link, Abi. It’s just bad luck. That’s all.’

  ‘Well, I wish we were luckier.’

  Day 2

  Sunday, 10th September 2017

  Chapter Seventeen

  Fenchurch eased the bedroom door shut and padded through to the hall. The morning sunlight blazed in from the living room.

  Chloe’s door was open, curtains drawn. The posters on the wall were bands whose names Fenchurch couldn’t even pronounce, let alone hum a bar of their music. She’d personalised the room. Made it her own. Abi’s old typewriters were gone. The bed was made.

  No sign of her.

  Fear spiked Fenchurch’s chest, sunk through the pit of his stomach. No sign of her in the bathroom, no sounds of running water or singing.

  He opened the kitchen door.

  ‘—por-por. Selene. Porcelain. Goddess. Por-por. Por-por-por.’

  Chloe was slaving over the cooker, hair tied back. The scar on her temple caught the spotlights and almost glowed, making Fenchurch flinch. She noticed him and turned the radio down. ‘Hey, Dad. I think this is going to be the best porridge yet.’

  Fenchurch kissed her then filled the kettle and stuck it on to boil. ‘What’s special about this one?’

  ‘Himalayan pink rock salt. Think that’ll be better than sea salt.’ She spooned up some porridge and held it
out for him. ‘What do you think?’

  Fenchurch tasted it. The salt brought out the sweetness in the oats. ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Worried it’s not sweet enough now?’ She ladled it out into two bowls and set them on the counter. ‘Drowning it in maple syrup like you do seems . . .’

  ‘Base?’

  ‘Right.’

  Fenchurch sat and drizzled brown liquid on his porridge, leaving just enough for Chloe. ‘I’ll drop you at work on my way in.’

  ‘Southwark isn’t your way in.’

  Fenchurch grinned. ‘Still going to drop you off.’

  ‘Starving already.’ Fenchurch pulled up in the supermarket car park. Over on the Old Kent Road, a cleaning truck trundled down, clearing up Saturday night’s vomit and stale beer. Another area of London, nowhere near gentrified, still stuck in the eighties. ‘Your grandpa calls porridge “cheat the belly”. You feel full, then twenty minutes later you’re starving.’

  Chloe let her hair down, covering up her scar. ‘Sorry, Dad.’

  ‘I’m criticising my metabolism, not your cooking.’

  ‘Well, I must have it too because I’m ravenous.’

  Fenchurch laughed. Not so long ago she was denying anything to do with us, now she’s making jokes about having my genes. Sent shivers down his spine. ‘What does Pete like to drink?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tonight. I’ll get something nice in. Beer, wine, whisky. You name it.’

  ‘Umm.’

  ‘First time we’ll meet him. Properly. Been a long time.’

  She opened her door and let the noise in.

  Fenchurch waved a hand at the supermarket. ‘What, you don’t know what he drinks or you don’t want him to come round?’

  ‘He doesn’t drink.’ Her tongue rolled over her lips. ‘Can’t.’

  ‘Doctor can’t or alcoholic can’t?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Chloe, are you seeing an alcoholic?’

  ‘Get off your high horse, Dad. I see how much you tuck away.’

  ‘Touché.’

  ‘If anyone’s a borderline alcoholic, it’s you.’

  ‘They say alcoholism’s a disease. It’s not. Alcoholics drink to escape their lives. It’s not stopping drinking that cures them, it’s dealing with their deep psychological issues.’