It even made sense of her reaction to his name the day of the interview. She’d covered it with that nasty jibe about which babies get called Angel, but really she must have been surprised to find that the parent of one of her patients was sitting there having an interview. Conflict of interest kind of thing, jeopardising confidentiality. But he was fifteen. I didn’t understand how he could be her patient without my say-so.
Had I neglected him? Calling him daddy’s boy, trying so hard to keep myself together I never noticed my son—my only child—falling apart. My only child. I never let that thought in my head. I had a hundred different ways of dodging it. “Do you have kids?” people would ask and I’d say, “I do. My son is … ” Clever. I kept all my truth in the spaces between the words. “How many kids you got?” “Well, there’s Angelo, my boy … ” Hugging my precious truth in the sneaky wee gaps in the meaning.
Barrelling along the road, the hawthorns in the high hedge dripping on my head and the foggy air creeping into my bones, I said it aloud for the first time ever. “Angelo is my only child. I’ve got one kid. His name is Angelo.”
As soon as the words left my lips, I heard her louder than I’d ever heard her before. It was coming from my right, the other side of the hedge.
“Mmmmhhmmmm.”
“No!” I screamed. “I’m sorry! I’m coming. I’m sorry!”
“Mmmmmmhhmmmmm.”
I started running flat out, searching for a break in the hedge, a gate, a fence, anything.
“Mmmmhhuuhhmmmm,” she said, clearer than she’d ever said it.
“I’m coming!” I yelled and suddenly there was a chorus, bellowing, a crowd of voices, and there was a gate and I threw myself at it and scrambled over.
Then I saw them.
Seven mothers and their calves, hooves deep in the mud, all huddled for warmth against the hedge and lowing their alarm, scared of the rushing feet in the lane and the stupid woman shouting her mouth off.
I sank back against the gate and let it take my weight. “I’m sorry,” I told them. “Sorry. I’m not going to hurt your babies. You’re okay.” The nearest one to me swished her tail and then put her head back down and tugged up a mouthful of grass. Slowly, as my breath settled, all of them turned away from me.
“You’ve got the right idea,” I said. “Keep them close.”
I was down on my hunkers now, my bum getting soaked on the wet ground, but I could no more move than I could laugh or even cry. And that’s where Marco found me.
The car went past, then I heard it slow and stop and the whine of the reverse gear as he came carefully back and hitched up into the gateway. The door opened.
“Ali?” He clambered over and crouched down beside me. “What’s up, pal?” He put an arm round me. “What did that doctor tell you that’s got you in this state, eh?”
I leaned into him, feeling his warmth begin to spread to me even through all our clothes. “I don’t think I can tell you,” I said. “Not yet anyway.”
“You can tell me anything,” Marco said. He put his lips against the side of my head and pressed hard.
“It’s just it’s nothing to do with you,” I said. “It’s a secret and it’s not mine to tell. Sorry.”
His arm fell away and he stopped pressing his lips to my hair. I looked up to see if he was angry, but he gave me a smile and shook his head, as if in wonder.
“Someone else’s secret?” he said. “All this and it’s not you and me? It’s not even Angel? So … you’ve heard a sad story from one of the nutters and you’ve got me stopping and landing smoochies on the boy and you’re zooming home to knit a onesie for him?”
I didn’t say anything. So I didn’t lie. Technically.
It was when I got into the car that the lightning bolt hit me. I pulled a carrier bag off the back seat to spread under my muddy trousers and remembered picking Angel up that night, soaked and shivering, the damp patch on the upholstery after. Of course a fifteen-year-old kid couldn’t get referred to a psychiatrist without a parent’s consent. But he’d had a parent’s consent.
I shot a sideways look at Marco. That parent had decided not to worry the other one. But he trusted the doctors, because he didn’t know what I knew.
“Something’s wrong at Howell Hall,” I said when we were underway.
“I thought you weren’t going to tell me,” Marco said. “Someone else’s secret and all that?”
I almost laughed. That was it. That was what he thought I’d heard—that my son was an outpatient at a nuthouse and his dad had kept it from me. That was what got him out of work and belting over here to pick me up.
“Not that,” I said. “Not only that. There’s something off about the whole place. Did you know that all the staff there have been chucked out of somewhere else? Dr. Ferris takes them on. Why would she do that?”
“Don’t put yourself down,” Marco said. “Not all the staff. Not you.”
I said nothing. Of course there was something wrong with me. My CV was a joke. But Dr. Ferris had employed me anyway. And her own husband had practically warned me off the night shift.
“I don’t know what all the parents and relatives would think if they knew their posh rehab place was staffed by rejects.”
“They can’t be that bad,” Marco said. Defending the place he’d agreed Angelo could go to. “They need to have clearance and accreditation and all that.”
“I don’t think the clearance procedure is much cop,” I said. “Mine came through on the nod. Dead quick.” Marco said nothing and I found myself turning to look at him. “When was it you got me to sign the PVG exactly?” I said. “Everyone seems surprised how quick it came back.”
Marco shrugged. “Bit of efficiency in the system,” he said. “Don’t knock it. And don’t do yourself down, saying Howell Hall must be crap if they’ve settled for you.”
“They’re hanging by a thread,” I told him, remembering what Lars had told me. “Didn’t get a great rating last time the inspectors came and they’re trying to clean up their act before the next sneak raid.”
“Sneak raid?”
“Surprise inspection. That’s why I’m in there, actually. To make the place look good and bump up the marks.”
Marco didn’t say anything for a while. When he spoke again his voice sounded strained. “That’s what you’ve been told?” he said. “Or that’s what you’ve decided out of your own head?”
“I’m just glad your thing’s going so well,” I said. “Hang in, eh? Because I’ll bet you as soon as the next CC’s done, I’ll be out on my ear.”
“You shouldn’t be so cynical,” Marco said. “You’re not even doing clinical care, are you? It wouldn’t make any difference. You’re dead wrong about why you’re there, Ali.”
I didn’t argue. I’d found out what I wanted to know. Because why would Marco know that CC stood for “clinical care” unless he’d been looking at Howell Hall’s credentials? Like a parent would.
Then we were slowing at our gate and I was out and up the path. When the engine didn’t turn off, I turned round and bent to look in at him.
“I’m going back to work,” he said, as the window went down. “Hanging in, like you said. See you teatime.”
I stared. He’d found me crouched in a cow field crying and he knew I was demented with worry about our son, not to mention that he knew our son was in all kinds of pain and trouble too, but he was going back to work? On the other hand, it suited me. I didn’t want him listening in when I talked to Angelo. I nodded and turned to put my key in the door.
He was lying on his bed. Of course. The same trackie bums and baggy sweatshirt he’d worn all weekend. Earbuds in, curtains closed, the little room fugged with his sweat and farts and the snacks he’d been living on. For once, I said nothing. I’d rather live with my face in his armpit than have him sitting in a hospital, silent for decades.
“Hiya,” I said, sitting.
He plucked out one of the earbuds and regarded me stonily. “Your turn, is it?” he said. “Dad’s already been in and had a go at me.”
“I want to talk to you.” I ignored the eye roll. “I need to hear what happened, Angelo.” I ignored the sigh that was almost a groan. “I know what you said about the day at the Mercat Cross isn’t the … ” Isn’t the truth, I wanted to say. “Whole story,” I settled for.
Out came the other earbud and he switched off the iPod. “What is your problem?” he said. “I told you that like you were a friend. And now you turn round and—What is wrong with you?”
He pulled his legs up, knees to chest, so fast I thought he was going to kick out at me to get me off his bed, but he was only preparing to spring up off the bed and make for the door.
“Angel, I’m talking to you!” I said. “Don’t you dare walk out on me.”
“I’m going for a piss, Mum,” he said. “Is that okay?”
“Was I supposed to know that?” I said.
But he had slammed the door. By the time he came back I had got a hold of myself again. The stories are crap but the pain is real.
“You’ve got a point,” I told him. “I’m sorry. I really am grateful you opened up to me that night. But I have to know everything that’s going on, Angel. I’m your mum and I want to protect you. I can’t protect you if I don’t know what’s happening. Can I?”
“Protect me from what?” He sat down at the head of his bed and put his feet up on the end of his desk, joggling it, piece of flat-pack crap that it was, so his laptop stirred to life.
“Look,” I said. “Your dad loves you and he’s trying to do his best for you. And for me. But he doesn’t always know best.”
Angelo snorted. “No shit!”
“So,” I said, treading carefully, “why not tell me what really happened?”
“You first,” Angel said. And then, after the silence had gone on so long that the air had turned dead between us, he added, “Yeah, I thought so.” He stood up again. “I need a shower,” he said. “I need to think. Let me go and have a shower and maybe I’ll tell you when I get back. Okay?”
And he was gone. I heard the bathroom door lock and then the water turn on. His laptop went back to standby, turning the dim room almost to darkness. I reached out to shake the desk and bring it to life again. For the light. Swear on my life, swear to God, it was only for the light. It never occurred to me until after I’d done it that he was logged in to his messages.
The shower was running. I stood up and bent over the lighted screen. There was nothing. Not a single message in his inbox and nothing saved. Nothing in the sent file and the trash was empty. My heart was cantering. He had cut himself off from everyone.
Was this really happening? My son had started hanging out all alone at a deserted ruin where he’d seen a human hand sticking up out of the ground and, instead of coming to me, he turned to a psychiatrist. And the story she’d told him about the dangers of letting little things loom large? That was what he served up to me as a sop. To make me stop asking him questions.
Could this really be true?
I stared at the screen. Something was wrong with a teenage kid who didn’t contact anyone for days on end. I hadn’t seen his thumbs at rest for three years before we left our house and came here.
Then a simpler explanation hit me. He might have been using the landline when he was in the house on his own. The shower water was still running, so sitting quickly in his desk chair I called up the browser, found the British Telecom homepage, and entered our details. It loaded slowly and I heard the water go off before the first page of itemised calls was complete, but it covered more than a week and I scanned them, noting incoming from 0800 numbers and one or two back and forth from Marco’s mobile, one or two back and forth to mine. There was only one number I didn’t recognise and there were five calls to it, the last one just today, not even an hour ago. I whipped out my phone and dialled it with one hand, shutting down our account and clicking back to Angel’s message page with the other.
It rang three times and then the familiar voice answered with a recorded message. “You have reached Tamara Ferris’s out of hours line. If you wish—”
I killed the call.
By the time he opened the door again, bringing a wave of Lynx and warmth in with him, the laptop had gone back to standby.
“Right,” he said, sitting down. “Here goes.”
“No,” I said. “You’re right, darlin’. I need to go first. What is it you want me to tell you? I don’t know where to start and I don’t want to overload you, but ask me anything. What is it you want to know?”
“Just … ” he said. “Why do you never talk about it to me? That’s all, really. I’m supposed to be a part of this family too. But you and Dad never even mention it in front of me. It’s like your private … Is it too special? Is it like I’d spoil your memories?”
I stood, opened the curtains, and opened the window. If I didn’t let some air in, I’d faint. He had no idea who we were, Marco and me. How long had he spent thinking we were this tight little unit of two sharing everything, keeping him outside?
“Angelo,” I said, “I swear to God, I didn’t think you knew. We decided not to tell you.”
“What the fuck, Mum?” I could see the pale disc of his face and the gleam of his eyes in the light coming through the window. “Of course I know. What are you talking about?”
“When did Dad tell you?” I said.
“What are you on about?” said Angelo. “Dad didn’t have to tell me. I was there. I remember.”
“What?” My voice was no more than a whisper.
“I remember your fat belly and the room with horses on the mobile and the bed that was even smaller than my bed. And then you were away and I bought a present and brought it to the hospital, but you were asleep. Then … then Dad said I wasn’t supposed to talk about it because it would make you cry. And you did cry. I remember that. Every night you cried. And then we were at the beach and it was sunny every day.”
“Australia,” I said. “But you were three. You were a baby. Wait, you’re saying you came to the hospital?”
“But you were asleep,” he said again.
“I didn’t even know you’d been.”
“And then you just kept it all to yourselves. Like I wasn’t even … ”
“No,” I said. “That’s not right.”
“Fuck’s sake, Mum,” he said. “How can you deny it? I don’t even know if it was a boy or a girl. I don’t even know if I had a brother or a sister!”
“Oh, Angel,” I said. “You never had either. There wasn’t a baby. But … yes, if things had been different, she would have been your sister. But she never was.”
Angelo’s voice was a breath of breeze in the room between us. “I don’t even know her name.”
You and me both, I wanted to tell him. Her “name” was Baby Girl McGovern. We hadn’t chosen one in advance and then there was no point. “Sylvie,” I said, for no reason at all except that I couldn’t tell him something so cold and make him think I didn’t love her.
For a long moment, we sat and looked at each other and then Angelo nodded, slowly and rhythmically, more as if he was bobbing his head to music than trying to communicate something. When he finally spoke again I couldn’t make any sense of it. “I knew it was someone from now,” he said.
“Sylvie?” I said, panic flaring in me.
Angelo frowned. “What? No. I knew it wasn’t a monk, over there, in the ground.”
“Huh. Right. Sorry,” I said. Then: “How?”
“Because he had a watch on,” said Angelo. “But the police don’t know that.”
Now I was doing the rhythmic nodding, and it helped me like it had helped him. It helped me swallow what he was telling me like it he
lped him swallow his sister’s name.
“Where is it?” I said at last. “You need to get rid of it, Angel.”
His breath was a thin gasp. “I haven’t got it!” he said. “I didn’t take it. I didn’t even touch it. It was too weird and minging. I just saw it.”
“So … ” I said. “Maybe the police do know and they’re holding it back. So they can sift the time-wasters from the serious witnesses?”
“What?”
Of course, he didn’t watch drama or read novels; he wasn’t as up on all the tricks as me. “Yeah, that’s what they do, see?” I said. “If someone comes along and says their brother had that belt and those jeans and Armani specs and he’s been missing for years on end, they’ll ask about the watch to double check.”
But Angel was shaking his head. “I don’t think so. They’d want to ID him, wouldn’t they?”
Plus, I thought, Lars’s friend hadn’t leaked the watch either.
“So what kind was it?” I asked him. “Could you tell?”
“No,” he said. “But I took a photo.”
My blood seemed to clench inside me, thick and sticky. “There’s a photograph of the hand on your phone? Angel, that phone’s at the police station. They’re bound to go through what’s on it eventually.”
“It’s not on my phone,” he said. “I’m not an idiot, Mum. I emailed it to myself and downloaded it.”
I glanced over at his laptop. “Why?”
“It was the coolest freak show I’d ever seen.” He said with a shrug. “It was a laugh.”
My hand shot out and grabbed his arm without me willing it. “Angel, who has seen the photo? Who have you shown it to?”
“What?” he said, shaking my hand off and giving me that look of wounded outrage I knew so well. I’ve done my homework; you said I could borrow it; everyone else is getting to go. But this wasn’t kid stuff now.
“Don’t even try playing the daftie,” I told him. “How is it a laugh if you don’t show someone? How is it cool if no one knows you’ve got it?”
He was staring at me, his eyes darting around my face and his jaw clamped so tight that a muscle was flickering in his cheek. “How can I show anyone a picture on my laptop in my bedroom?” he said.
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